The We,

I think that's why I suggested we stop blogging. I'm trying to release you from something I feel is an unpleasant burden and a key of a sort of resentment. Though you rally. Why keep insisting when you have no heart for it? And when I stopped doing that a few months ago, my very posts are the reminder, and the herald of unansweredness. I want to let you go from that. Please let me, let you go. And you can come back when and if you're ever ready. Let this be the last letter.


1. I remember when you first got Bender before I'd visited you off that Shelley Road and what a big deal it was to have taken that leap against certain outside objections, and gotten her and entered petdom in all its beautiful and painful glory. I remember meeting Scott just 3 weeks after you two met, and his friend Mike as I helped you move from out of that one Apartment to this new one.... your glassware, receipts, the strange black grit that coated everything. And the moss that hung from the trees in all its southerness. And feeling very clearly like I was your lady in waiting. Already how together you two seemed to be.


Dear sweet Bender. Now with a Bailey. I hope in her last days, her aging, as we are all dying, though she nears it close, be filled with love and peace. And care and patience. This is your first pet. She is and will always be a big deal. And she is beautiful.


2. I feel the same way about Clif Bars. And wish I didn't have so many good things to snack on at my fingertips sans away workplace. Must walk.


3. I watched the end of ProRun on Hu/u. And was like, hmm. Eh. Ok. I have avoided Downton. As the operatic highs and lows, i cannot take. Though I have finally set to watching all of Parks+Rec.


4. I haven't used my credit card in about 10months. Shoes are falling apart. Clothes are being pushed to the edge, but I'm doing it- with my mom's help of course. But trying to live in some very narrow parameters while I move my parents and myself, while I am in this particular space. And it is a newer non-fatalistic, taking for myself, and palms open up to what God might have in this. We shall see.


5. my mom did a listening prayer for you:


I got the same image of a gift to her, white small box with lavender ribbon that is a symbol of her being loved and deserving of good things.




m.

the where

Indeed I do think that's the better question, the where are we and how do we meet. I did have to take a day to think about that and return to it as for whatever reason yesterday morning I set about on the wrong foot with it and everything else really. Preschool teeming with full-moon driven children who threw toys and upended baskets for sport. The normally docile ones shoving each other and filling each other's clothes (even a diaper?!) with playground mulch, all admonishments falling on very deaf ears. More ear problems then plagued the afternoon with pulling the children from school early to visit the Expensive Specialist for KLo's persistent complaints. Although I liked the new nurse practitioner there, a ponytailed, vest-wearing, kind of mystical man? He left a lot of space between his thoughts, the effect of which was calming. But also was very amused by us, which in turn amused me back. The remaining KLo ear tube was removed, canals were vacuumed and KLo behaved like some rented child, hired to be angelic. Otherwise, results were inconclusive as to why she's having ear pain, aside from an extremely stuffed nose. So now she's theatrically downing Mucinex (tastes bad!) and taking it upon herself to administer nasal spray in a similarly theatrical manner. Except that she sort of enjoys the spray.

This moon (wolf?) is a very, very weird one.

We returned home post-appointment to find our yard spray painted to indicate utility/cable lines, as well as the neighbor-who-hates-us' yard - what. I imagined her constructing a barbed wire border between us to keep our infernal dogs off her property once and for ALL. And I was half overjoyed, half irritated at the prospect. Like at least tell us you're having work done if it involves our yard? Because that spray paint was pretty much on top of our house in the side yard. So I had to call her and ask and she had no idea. Then J.Lo found the work order in his systems (handy) and uncovered that the spray was for cable installation - at another address. duh. I do hope they figure that out before they start digging. Something else to prespire vaguely over.

Back to the question of our meeting place. What is the answer. In this season of life I admit that I don't miss writing or feel any level of commitment toward it. And I feel distantly like I should feel something about that but then I just shrug and continue plowing through the day. Creating is an important element, yes, and words might be the medium, but they don't have to be necessarily. It's like the way I, seemingly without any forethought, gave up twittering well over a year ago and then a few months ago, instagramming. Which was sporadic at best anyway. There was no why to it, it just suddenly wasn't. And all I've done is shrug over it. 

But I miss you. (duh!) Somehow we must renew our commitment to the conversation, I think. Or the narrative, or whatever we want to call it. Apparently the word writing causes me to flee like a scared, winged thing, but I'm not going to ponder that one too deeply. for now, anyway.

This morning (it's a day later that I'm finishing this, of course - yesterday I was pecking the draft out on my phone while inexplicably eating a Sonic breakfast sandwich in my car - I was that desperate for a moment alone before work? - and today I'm in the living room next to a puppy with Game Show Network on the background, oh the 70s...), an idea popped in my head. I don't know if it's a bad one and probably it's the result of coffee energy but sometimes some of those go somewhere! so they are worth having. Anyway, I was thinking about questions or lists. Kind of like those buzzfeed quizzes are so addictive, except as a side note, all of my recent quiz results have been bizarre: mental age, 24. The place I should live, Cape Town. the fuck? Because I'm the kind of person "who never sits still for a moment." Right. And then the Muppet version of me is the guy who throws fish? You know, the one kind of dressed like a clown. What the hell.

Questions, lists, snippets. How I love them so. And I like this idea of throwing them out to each other like a prompt. Like the "What's Making Me Happy this Week" segment on my favoritest podcast. Well maybe it's dumb, but -

From me, of late:
1. Biggest feat:
Finding a Very Lost Library book. In a place I looked five times already - book shelf in the two-year-old classroom. Literally I was losing sleep over this thing, this book with the happy bunny and his damn happy rainbow, because it's not so much the fine of being overdue (nominal), but the inability to take out new books while it's MIA. Unacceptable! And then the unfinished business of either replacing said book or paying some inflated, standardized replacement fee - bah.

2. I might have a problem with:
Larabars. They've been on sale at Target for at least two weeks now and I can't stop trying new flavors. While I have no interest in Blueberry Muffin, anything with peanut butter or chocolate chips can't be beat. Or cherries, that wasn't bad either. They're the best-lunch-ever when sitting down with a table of tiny people who need assistance at every turn. They're ugly enough that no child wants to steal a bite. They're filling enough that I'm not starving my face off half an hour later. And I really can't delight more in such a short, protein-packed ingredient list that eschews GMO things and supports fair trade.

3. I have the sads about:
my dying Bender. She really can't even run anymore, or shouldn't. We leave her inside while throwing ball for puppy and she cries for the length of this torture. The lumps and bumps grow, the limping and creakiness increase. Watching her lay down or attempt to stand is a cringe. Though we've made her more comfortable with some painmeds. Mental snapshot: Bender on Christmas morning, Giving Up in the midst of the chaos by collapsing in a pile of wrapping paper.

4. Most amazing discovery:
The sketchy-looking business near Food Lion isn't actually a human trafficking operation/illicit massage parlor, but an upstanding adult toy shop. (It's called "Shhh... !ntim@cy on a New Level.") Which actually has a ch@nge dot org petition associated with it, but to keep the place open, not shut it down for human trafficking. Apparently it's way too progressive for this community, to sell toys. Oh, the irony! But really, they ought to choose a better name. My mind ran in circles for months over it.

5. Favorite Downton moment:
Lord Grantham and Carson's faces over the prospect of dining with a singer. YES. What would they talk about, after all..

Your turn?
love,
pen

Dear Ether,

I wonder if it's not so much where communication is or isn't. The question is where we are. Where are, and how do we find, each other? And if that's important- to find each other and to keep looking for ways to find each other- and to communicate the story of our lives. But that was never agreed upon in the larger sense, but for me or us to keep writing was. Somewhere in there, what became significant for me was the narrative of us. And the only important thing was-- was that I was talking to you. And being ok as the threads become sparse in the weaving, and realizing they're still beautiful, but nervous of the delicate weft with not much for borders. I think that's really the thing. Because the unspoken really does matter as it builds and as time passes. The unsaid things. The things we chose to share-


Speaking of- this just happened- Ivy known by a different name who has a daughter who must be 8 1/2 by now whom I last heard from May 2012 before not hearing from her at all 6 months or more before that. Emailed me just now and said, I have so much to tell you!


Um.


Yes.


But then didn't tell me anything except that she has her daughter back. And I wonder who else she is seeking out and telling her story to. And how I am someone she's telling things to- the bad things all implied, observed, but the one good thing noted, and witnessed. Over all these years. And there is something to that. She chooses to tell me and that she thinks (and does) it matters to me that she's alive and still fighting, and would not have guessed this is the turn it would take... or has taken, is taking. But it is a OneWayStreet or I don't know what- what I am to her. And why do I matter as this constant she'll be there, she'll answer. I wonder if I always will. It's perhaps a little the way an oaktree can hardly relate to a songbird. But it cannot help but hear the song or be a resting place if just for a minute - It may be the same with us. As a dragon to a horse. But,


The said things, or I wanted to say- it's like that song "I'm waiting for my real life to begin." Scrubs. Right. Sigh. And how it's good that you're not wanting to do that. You're going to live in the present and not wait for perfect. It's like my floors. But about your healing I want you to remember, prayer is free. The cost of connecting to God's love immeasurable. And perhaps that might be something. Even if it's not with me.


Like Serendipity. Or Epiphany. Or Providence.


Calling out across the miles.


To remind you of your infinite and eternal value.
 

A,

In an upswing of energy, having thought most of the day of passing out in my chair and even still but now it doesn't count because it's actually bedtime. But I packed the 3 boxes of decorations I have, and cleaned the house of tree. If I want a bigger tree I'm going to have to add a 4th box and get more ornaments- because after the mom divide I have nary the supply I once did and my ornaments barely covered the 4ft thing I had. Theyre not in the attic yet but they're so close...I even had the energy to wipe down a few cabinets- while having a conversation with Kerry no less. Unrelated to that, but related to the rampant cleaning, I'm throwing Amy a tea on Sunday because it was her birthday and every day in my malaise I've picked something to do so the house is presentable- especially to new people. So that's helped me dole out the otherwise insurmountable projects- like laundry and sweeping and repotting a few things, which winded me on Thursday but am feeling better today though the submental node is still a small button presenting itself. We were <.> close to having it in Malibu. I don't know WHAT happened. As it is I got this amazing blue fabric from Marge but has this mothball stench I can't get rid of after maybe 3 or 4 washes...


But as I tried to move a few pots and gaze at the disarray the backyard is to me, I almost lost it again as I gazed at my crumbling patio. The braces separating. The supports decaying, the top bowing in. Ugh. And then you know- it's just not done and even though there is always something I have to have it look settled in order to be settled no matter how much needs to be done. It must be like the shoe situation you mentioned. Which I have no words for. Part of me though thinks- change, good. But then... it's all pretty impossible. But then I thought that about the doors but then again it took 16 years.


As a sidenote I bought, on managers special, this cheddar jalapeño bread- so good. I just had some toasted with butter. Man. That makes it all better. And all Amy cheekily wanted was Coke and Doritos... so I did buy that but I know that wouldn't go over well with any of the other ladies, or myself honestly. But I am going to do it up in a bow for her.


Anyway I should go to bed- I will say though I think the best... ok I don't know how there could even be just one... of the Hallmark Movies... so nevermind.


I finally also got twist to sleep on my lap- though if I move she'll panic and bolt right off- she is distressed as her victory for the chair was hard won against marley and she doesn't know what to do when I'm in it- she choses the rug on the floor in the laundry room over sharing the couch... poor thing.


k-

Confessions,

One of the interesting things about canceling cable besides the typical hard sell that almost gets you- the you can suspend it for 9 months, you can have two months to decide if you do cancel it and undo it, and here's a mailer about all the savings you could have if you came back, and here's a follow up call from an account manager talking it through just in case you weren't sure, or somehow misheard how great a deal they were going to offer you, or if you were really upset and how could he make it better...


HOLY CRAP they are the devil. I mean $70! a month of course down to 24.99 for 2 years... And yes there are lower packages but for what purpose. They really do have guys by a vice however- with the how will I live without sports- oh I don't know- go to a bar! or the news- I don't know - go online! Yes spend money on time wasting. By all means. Who knew I would turn against it. Someone suggested I even cancel Netflix. I'm not quite there yet... but close.


However, in between my tv working with Netflix and no internet downstairs, I turned the tv on out of habit and like a true Christmas miracle there were just a few channels remaining... enough to get me through to the New Year. And the only channel showing much of anything was the Hallmark Channel. I have never seen so many- as I prefer lifetime movies- but there was the Christmas Dance, Christmas Song, Hats off to Christmas, Help for the Holidays, Christmas Spirit, and a Princess for Christmas... I watched all of them. I can't say quite beginning to end but close- but what I learned was that with a little can-do attitude, compromise, and moral certainty I will find the love of my life, my dreams will come true, and I'll live happily ever after... oh and miracles do come true. They really do.


Watching all of that is probably why I got sick again right around the 1st anyway. My submental node swollen. Still actually there. I looked back to my last letter and it seems I was sick before that. The slip was somewhere right before.


But anyway I have more to say about everything but lets leave that till tomorrow. Including pondering which movie I most related to, which one was my favorite... you know the important stuff.

to tula

- and her missed presence, her web-spun perfection. The made-up but delightful word "carcai." To lost things and spring, may they one day be found again.

Is blogging, then, where the details live? I wonder. And it's a strong argument for returning full-fledged (me, you, us, everyone, the whole world even), though in the socially-networked, smartphoned-out world we've built up, we've managed to create a series of daylong energy zappers, or diverters, as the case may be. And so maybe it's quality, not quantity we should strive for, hence smaller lists of the close friends or whatever we choose to label them. But I find myself creeping back to the bigger list, the wider circle, for whatever reason. And then quickly becoming aggravated by the clutter, or bored with the excess of details I never wanted or asked for within this wider circle, and left wanting more and/or wondering when and if to give more to and from the smaller circle.

Blogging is better, I think it can be solidly concluded. But then Facebook is where everyone now lives. Ooo - sidenote - is personal blogging now effectively counter-cultural? Almost. Oh, how quickly this world, the vocabulary and the constructs, evolves!

It does present a conundrum of creative energy and social energy and how and where and when to spend it. Or is it not a conundrum and it's really a simple thing.

I do hate, as I mentioned to a friend (camping buddy) on our recent adventure, how everything is scattered across so many different platforms. Pictures, words, thoughts, memories, explanations. Tula would not approve of this way-tangled web. Our online lives' content is sprinkled and scattered and inconsistent and I wish there were a way to scrape it all together and keep it in one spot, at very minimum. At best, shape into something coherent, cohesive and tangible.

We spent New Year's in the woods, the sky super-clear and way more expressive even than what I see here, from our own front yard. This cabin camping trip was a good 'un and I think it will be replicated in the future. Good company, good food, good locale and good scotchy scotch scotch. One excruciating detail is the sole of my shoe, which I rested on the metal fire ring and effectively melted, shredded. I felt it happening but ignored it until we came home. And m, I can't even. Those shoes. My favorite, favorite shoes (Docs), which I wore everysingleday in the colder months. I buried them in the closet and won't even reexamine or document the damage in picture form. Literally it makes me shudder just thinking about their being wrecked.

The shoe repair place here is closed for whatever reason, and there's this online place that I called today for resoling estimate: $79. Plus $12 shipping. That's nearly the cost of a new pair! Which I could, but can't. I really can't justify that. So I've been looking around on ebay but then I accidentally bid on the wrong size and had to ask for bid retraction and consequently cut myself off from ebay for the rest of the night.

There's a few days left of break for myself and the children. Somehow every night I dream of work, either mundane events with the children - maybe my subconscious is worried about a few because FB tells me they've been sick? or sometimes it's weird events that make little sense. Last night on the other hand, a preschool dream evolved into one where J.Lo insisted that, given perfect sky conditions, he could and would fly me in a plane to closely observe the moon.

I'm resolving - no, readying - to conquer or at least surpass the winter's doldrums. I do love that about a school year, the predictable, traditional, month-by-month way it unfolds. And in teaching, how you become responsible for that unfolding, creating and carrying each month's meaning. It's kind of a beautiful anchor. January for my group is all about hibernating. Bear-hunting and such. (EEJ, your birthday party of yore is inspiring an entire classroom setup!)

There is always something to look forward to. Even in this natural time of loss-and-sorrow. (Man, I hate that Param died, right then.) This coming-down from the excitement and glory of Christmas.

There are children to teach, a K.Lo party to plan, walls to paint! And countless other good things.

My resolutions, if they exist, are as such: to create more. What, it does not matter - words, foods, crafts. Now that AA must have received her ninja(?), I can freely blog about how this Christmas season, my absolute favorite thing in the day-by-day madness was hand-making these felty bookmarks and ornaments. With stitching and all. The end results were quirky, personalized and from the penelope-heart. I feel like next year I could start even sooner, but this brings me to my second resolution which is -

to reconnect with serendipity. It's something I feel like the highly sophisticated and awesomely accessible intrawebs has somewhat destroyed, but no - it has simply evolved. Serendipity through FB allowed us in a single random thread to reconnect with old friends and set up that great camping trip. Serendipity through Pinterest landed me on those felty creations, however late in the season. Serendipity still exists, and I want to embrace it.

Also, not a resolution but a conclusion for 2013. Something I almost posted on the FBs and then retracted five thousand times in my mind, but will place here as A Detail: There is no "getting better." I'm done waiting for that, after nearly a year of having suspected LD, journeying to figure out WTF it was and attempting to treat it and then still having symptoms, everysingleday. Every single day, I will probably feel something wrong with me, the weak arm or the achy joints or the not remembering shit moment to moment. Mixing up word context and being only vaguely aware of it after the sentence has been spoken. And other weird or disconcerting randoms. But I can't let the excuse of it overwhelm me into lump-dom, into putting xyz off indefinitely. There is rest and self-caring, yes. But also continuing to live a life, and attempting to make it a good life.

I suppose this a stopping point for now. TBB (to be blogged) is a list of my random pet peeves, to which I couldn't manage to naturally segue here, including the recent trendy word and related phrase, "gut" and "gut health." And I look forward to the Hallmark Channel post.

love to you across the miles,
pen

Dear Ether,

I had a pet spider. When people saw it for the last couple months I would say, that’s my pet orange spider, Escher. Or Geronimo. I couldn’t ever decide. It was small and orange and he lived in the living room lamp.  I fed him a couple ants and watched him spin like a mad wizard blue flashing thread. At one point his web got messy and he’d remade the entire thing over night. It sparkled in symmetry, undulated slightly with my breath as I bent in to examine it. And then as time went he let it go and it got quite dirty with fuzz and cat hair – leaving carcai, dotted along its landscape,  everywhere, and then one day I saw him dangling a bit out of orbit and then he was gone. And he never came back. And as much as the lamp needs a good vacuuming and the web just reminds me that Tula the small orange spider isn’t there… there is a tunnel spider in the crook of 2 panes in the backdoor… but I cannot say it is quite the same.

I turn from that loss scratching my head and gazing at it occasionally, as if over an hour or two of Blades of Glory- a triumph for figure skating, Tula will reappear and everything will go on as it was. As it is, A Christmas Carol is playing and the web is desolate just like doorways of my house of a certain prescient cat or my tearing up over the sight of tomatoes.  Advent is all about waiting, and loss and sorrow, and more waiting upon deliverance, and expectancy, I could say, but I do not know if mine must be so entirely literal, or Christmas Carole still horrifically timeless. But there it is.

What else besides. Cancelling cable. Learning how to use a kilsaw. Cleaning out Marge’s garage...

This post was interrupted by ill-internet connections....  and of course the Hallmark Channel- deserves a post all its own- what I've learned as it was the only thing for days to watch- compromise, good cheer, perseverance- you always find love, come out ahead... together.

And now The new year is upon us. I was reminded to say we cannot know people through status updates. Especially infrequent ones – dispositions, moods, new haircuts, bit swaths of life- but not the details. Param died- I didn’t post. I didn’t feel I could compound FB with more suffering and loss within my orbit as it was. Poor Kevin. Poor Rachel his wife. That horror unfolding all through FB but via a blog was where the in betweens were all kept. And who is marge? And why am I cancelling cable? And why on earth am I telling trader joe’s people that I learned how to use a kilsaw? And that I felt very clever to use my fake eyeglasses and my kneepads from rollerblading and protective devices. Woeful I didn't get a photo. The great trench work of 2013 completed! Did you know we're banning plastic bags forever and charging people for paper ones in LA? And though tequila makes everything merry and bright photos still lie when I would call the gatherings soulless, even if mother and I are not. Though,

My rosebush Lagerfeld came back to life in very Christmastide like fashion. That’s something too. A sort of Christmas miracle. There’s still time for those- till the 6^th. I was very close to ripping it out of the ground as months have past and it seemed to just be dying or already dead- the greenish limbs a mocking illusion. But no just a couple days ago and poof- little bits of green hope all over it. And a surprise package from one AMRF with delicious lotions and a felty Jesus- spoke also of something distant and lost, and Spring. And just today my dad spent 5 hours trying to fix my internet, poor man. An oft not seen tenacity on my behalf- or technology. And my mom, with me and father, as an anchor of moral support... weeding and patching holes in the ceiling. Another great good gift. Oh and coffee. Taking her to all the lovely places.

I had more to say about subtext too and how my parents trained me for it, modeling silence and the unspoken- and here I thought it was my education- and feeling like we should quit the blog. Of a strain. Of the unsustainable. Unrelated to subtext, and would say it all except I'm watching Great Expectations. It is perhaps because I am tired.

Goodnight.

m.

the impossible,

I know I ponder the theft of param from the world. Maybe she was on borrowed time the night that I first found her having used all her lives. I can only imagine. She seemed offended mostly as she was dying. Like oh dammit, I did it didn't I. This sucks we all seemed to be thinking. It breaks my heart in all sorts of ways. More than deaths of older animals or ill animals. It was nice to pray with my mom for the cat though as we sat there. She did seem more out than in if the tales of cats are true. But I thought for sure she'd be the one to call 911 and save someone's life one day. What a reckless but prescient cat. I had her in my arms one moment before which makes in worse in that I wish I'd have carried her into the house and locked her away from harm. But that goes to inevitability doesn't it- it's so hard to say what prevention looks like when you let your animals be themselves and be free- and she seemed heartily defiant when it came to cars and to the neighbors driveways. I do wonder the point of it all - all of that and then to come to this in so short a time. I mean really- it only made it better in that either God would miraculously heal her or she would die in a moment. I gave her all night to make up her mind even though she died over 5 minutes time, but in the end I pictured her with Jesus, and I buried her in the backyard with a sprinkling of miniature roses. Mortimer attended at a distance, being the only of the three other cats to really sense the depth of what was occurring. But anyway,

And now what. We're so lucky to not be exposed to death more often and to be able to mourn the loss of a cat and not have rows of human bodies to bury. And I find it hard to have witnessed healing on Friday, to a strange encounter at Ralphs to hear about another womans healing, to have my cat die and then cathy come over to drop off some fishing line just this morning and ask unknowingly if I could pray for her cold for healing. And as I prayed her breathing actually became clearer. What can we do.

It is like you say a matter of surprise. But it's an honest untainted reaction to both the good and bad of what comes to us. And I suppose that's how it should be- its a bad day when we both predict a miserable outcome and hope for nothing more or find no joy in something so miraculous as someone being healed of scoliosis or the unfathomable construction of a pomegranate.

But still it is hard upon us to be caught so constantly in between.



 

impossible things

dear non-broken ever-persevering blog, 

I find it impossible that your kitty from the far-off lands so suddenly met a terrible end. After all that - ? Just to - ?  I have no words. 

How are YOU. 

It's impossible to me, on a much more superficial note, that pomegranates exist. These treasure troves of addictive shimmery kernels. We ate them this weekend. They were 58 cents each. 

And my impossible, improbable job. How did I even end up teaching littles, and really caring about it? So much that when my assistant was recently taken away and my classroom that I worked so hard to create was half taken away, I melted down into a frantic puddle. Tears are vexingly effective and I now have some semblance of help (unpaid assistants, bless them), at least through the month's end, so for the moment it's not quite as bad? as originally perceived. But still so many problems with combining ages 2 and 3. One wants to eat buttons and the other really does not want to share. No one wants to hear stories anymore. They run laps and bang the plastic hammers as loud as they possibly can. There is a holiday program to learn and take-home gift-type projects to create, but we are operating with our bare-bones, hoping to keep this ship afloat until it evolves into another type of vessel (full-day operation, details TBD) - 

I want to teach them things, but at the moment, if they can just stay alive. 

And then through all of this, here is me, impossibly as the girl with the tick on her back. Or in my brain. An impossible tick ate my brain. Day 40 of antibiotics approaches with no change. No expulsion or extinction or thorough exorcism as hoped. An acceptance of the new Way Things Are and have been for months - flu-like mornings, lack of short-term memory, weak right arm like I touched a Horcrux or something. All-over arthritis. Not to mention the random twitches and zaps and pains and tingles, whatever the tick at its post commands. Floating through the day as though everything's fine and it mostly is until I pause and then - 

so 

weighed 

down 

by the spirochetes or whatever they are swirling around inside my blood and my muscles and mind. 

Life is a string of impossible things, one after the other, and yet we remain surprised. I wonder why.

much love to you,
penelotick

Ether,

Sometimes I suppose we forget where we are in the chapter of our own lives. I decided to take my laptop into my room, dreaming one day of a queen sized bed to stretch out in, and admire my newly painted door- glorious- and put on some bon iver. And it was this familiar feeling, like I'd done this and written it before, but it felt so new and novel- what do you mean turn off the noise of tv and retreat to a calm space. And the last thing I'd been listening to was the last chapters of Something Wicked This Way Comes. I hadn't remembered. How quick things fly in and out.

Nothing is stable in this newly painted space.

Walking and low body temperatures and lists that go on and on and never end - staring at spots, just like before but with things that suddenly remind you of a distance. You aren't the same anymore. And that door newly painted with the shiny brass nob- that was 16 years of waiting and that hallway door maybe 40. Perhaps it will do nothing to quiet the place but they were a beautiful thing to imagine into being.

But there is so much you want and desire. Where do I begin?

He said to dream with him, and worship him with my hands...

more later,
m.



 

Letter to the Ether,

I guess we broke the blog. Or that the unexpected fish tank explosion of 2013 really was the last straw. I wish through this time I was unaware of leaving the blog or that I didn't think about talking to it, but I deliberately didn't- my usual test to see if I could give up talking to the ether and I find that I cannot.

So here I am again.

There is something to the slight warping of the floor boards you mention. The imperceptible lift and catch to say I am no longer perfect, no longer a blank slate to act upon and be acted upon but a floor with a story. I suppose it depends how long you live there and who will live to know and pass down this queer day there was a shift and the inexplicable imperfect occurred. It deserves a small humorous plaque I think. The stories I know of my floor are not nearly as daring- fraught with the hazards of carpet and animal or metal or toilets overflowing. I wish it had been more. And the mundane hazards replicated over decades -- thus the scripture. I finally sanded the West bedroom after a couple sermons and worship music and avoidance activities and now the equally arduous task of stain and sealing. The same herculean mental effort.

It is also possible my metabolism is crashing which would explain the extreme fatigue, the brittle nails and hair, weight gain and recurring food intolerance - dairy, frosting? I don't know. If I wasn't afraid of the black Friday or that guy Mayhem I would've gotten some b-supps. I did however take a walk. And it was a beautiful post rain- glisten and gold dripped trees.

It is not lyme's disease however. It is not that... should know more.

But we are tired are we not of all the habitat enrichment and diagnosis that is the human body. But still we must grapple and wrestle out of this mortal shell and cross the divide into that collaborative body of experience, warping boards and all. Beautiful in the patterns we make.

I did almost set the house on fire- but in my defense I didn't know that the large board was soaked in something highly flammable before I put it sideways into the fireplace.

m.



 

post traumatic fish tank smash

Last week my fish tank inexplicably exploded as I walked by - I stood there gasping not unlike the gourami on the floor, amongst the decorative stones, glass shards and water. Lots and lots of water. It was random and crazy, and I can still only imagine how much worse it would have been if the tank had been bigger, if more blood had been shed, if N.Lo hadn't been home sick with me called in to work. 

Obviously I lived to tell the tale. Cleanup ensued. Electronics lived, skin remained mostly unscathed, many books were rescued while others soaked and died. Even those goddamn fish are still swimming around in a pitcher, all six of them, though I don't know for how long. 

But one thing is still bothering me. I'm going to write it here and never speak of it again. Because ultimately it is just one of those terrible, itchy, imperfect things in life that you can do absolutely nothing about. 

My floorboards are warped. You have to stare at them to see it, or shuffle your feet like I do when I walk around the house to feel it. The wood is still glossy and shiny and lovely, I get that. And it could have been so much worse, I also get that. But there it is, on so many of the planks the water met, a slight bow to the edges, a vexing, audible unevenness under my slippered strides, which won't ever, ever be amended, save for an entire reinstallation. Which I know darn well will never happen. 

IT BOTHERS ME SO MUCH.

There. I said it. Now I'm never talking about again. Bah!

buggin

Here in the southeast, there is a bug for every season, I recently shared with M--a literal bug. Spring is the season for tick-abundance, and like freckle posers or ends-of-sentences they appear on your skin as if they can escape your constantly editing eye. Or else they burrow in the dogs and have a feast, dislodge themselves and waddle away, brainless and dumb, off to provide a feast for birds or, in a decidedly lesser contribution to the circle of life, a horrifying squish experience for your bare foot.

Summer is mosquitoes, wasps and, toward the end, deer flies. Itchy, oppressive and mean as the heat itself. You fight them with toxic sprays and swatting hands and running feet, but ultimately you just have to endure their existence until the cool arrives, providing them an expiration date and you a sigh of relief.

Fall brings the stink bugs, brown and shield-shaped, and seeking a warm home. In spite of their unfortunate name, I have yet to encounter the actual stink, perhaps because my research came to me in advance of any encounter and I know better than to kill them. I simply ferry them from their place on the curtains and walls and window screens back outside. To me, these are the least offensive of all the bugs, because they are just there. Hanging out solo or in groups. Minding their own business, not attacking, and maybe more importantly, not scurrying.

Which brings me to winter and the bugs that are not bugs - mice. Every year we have at least two, appearing for the same reason as their predecessors (warmth), but these I cannot abide. Perhaps they tap into my deep-seated anxiety toward balloons and biscuit cans: the element of suspense, surprise. Or else I'm intimidated by a cleverness and physicality that can lead them, in spite of blindness, toward the darkened depths not in, but behind, a dishwasher.

Are these creatures questionable mascots for each season, a reason to wish the time away? Or are they simply what is there, a defining attribute or buggy backdrop to the scene...

dear bruckner,

I know, right? It's a total crisis, this Book Purgatory thing. And that terrible thought about All Books - I shudder thinking it ever even skipped across my brain-screen, if only for a nanosecond.

My favorite book currently is "Will Grayson, Will Grayson," which is a collaboration between my two favorite authors, David Levithan and John Green. Separately they slay with me with their wit and heart; in this book they get together and it's like, boom. Mind. Blown.

Now for the hap-py-blog-iversary questions (which I'm writing before reading M's own responses):


1) Do either of you remember why you started blogging? And why do you suppose nine years later you're still doing it?

I distinctly remember that I started blogging because M insisted. I didn't really get the whole concept of blogs at the time, or what sort of thing we were each meant to contribute, but I could not ultimately resist the offer to collaborate. Nine years later, I still can't resist that offer. And, as M has often said, this has become a written record of us. A little treasure box in the ether of our words. It's Pen&M, a history.


2) In these last nine years, what has been your most personal post?

Hmm, tricky. The Best of Bailey post comes to mind, although maybe there is another squirreled away in there. Certainly M is going to have many more to sift through and choose because, and this has always been and continues to be a blog-philosophy split, I veer away from the personal. Or at least too personal. For years I stuck to reality TV and other mostly non-personal topics in my blog-posts, and with prodding evolved to at least share daily life details and a slice of my feelings toward them.


However, I have trust issues, and while I do believe one's best writing can happen when one is at her most vulnerable, I am pretty firm about not delving into that vulnerability on a blog. So in some ways that's a hindrance to my writing here, but then, different forums dictate different styles, so I feel like my blogging retains its own value. I just refuse to bare my soul here, where anyone can just happen by and sift through its contents. Trust has to be earned, dammit!


Maybe that was my most personal post, right there.


3) Are there any topics that are off limits to blogging? If so, what are they?


Please see above.


4) If this blog continues on for another nine years, what do you suppose you will be writing about then?


The aches and pains of aging, for sure. And the increased incidence of death surrounding us. Also, holy crap, my children will be well into their teens by then, and I'm sure I'll have a lot to say. And I'm hopeful that I'll have more travel stories by then. Or some at all, as the case may be.



5) If you could go back nine years to just before this blog's inception, what would you tell yourselves about the arduous literary journey ahead?


I'd show me the recent words M wrote reminding me about unique voices, perspectives, experiences, and how not only are they meant to be shared, but that they are completely worth sharing. I'd tell me to shut up and just blog already.



6) Do either of you have drafts of unfinished posts? If so, how many? And what were your reasons for not pushing the publish button?


It's possible that I have unfinished posts, but more likely in my brain rather than on the blogger dashboard. Because I can't stand the idea of such detritus and would likely delete it to clear away virtual clutter. Unpublished drafts in my brain remain so purely because of time.


7) Have you ever considered posting under your real names? Would doing so dramatically change your blogging approach?

I've thought about it many times over the years. I imagine my posts would be more polished and pointed rather than rambling? Perhaps product-driven, rather than process-driven. So basically, my posts would all be pretty, shiny finished things, rather than scribbles and half-thoughts. But I don't think that'd necessarily be any better. I think there's more freedom under a pseudonym.


8) If a stranger happens upon your blog for the first time today, what do you believe they'd think about it? What would you want them to think about it?

I think there would be a whole lot of head-scratching at first. But ultimately after some sifting, I think they'd see it as a long and important conversation between friends.


9) Have you ever placed a hidden meaning in a post? If so, would it be too much of me to ask you to share an example? And if it wouldn't be too much for me to ask you to share an example, will you share one?

I'm sure I have, but what? That's one of those questions where you can think of the answer until you're asked.

Oh - maybe there have been references to terrible family members on here that were veiled. That's entirely possible.



10) Finally, if Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say about your blog when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
I'd like for God to tell me that my blogging, for all of its flaws and lacking, were still enough.

You might also substitute the word blogging for other things there. Friendship. Parenting. Wife-ness. All around person-dom. I think it's something everyone needs to feel or hear.

To Bruckners 10, by Mendacious

Thank you Bruckner for taking the time to draft such sincere questions to which I sincerely respond. I can't say I was sarcastic, pithy or comical once. What has happened to my heart?

Do either of you remember why you started blogging? And why do you suppose nine years later you're still doing it?

At the time, I think we came late to the blogfad even back in 2004, I was a year out from gradschool where I produced daily in a highly neurotic and compressed environment. So obviously displaying my work seemed a logical next step and forcing output vital. I look back to our first post and it still stands- I had a fear going through grad school that I would stop writing. I remember some of the best writers looking at me thinking, no way, you won't stop, and besides this blog, I have. I'm not producing anything for it's own sake. The great Californian novel lying dormant. Phyllis Moore, our favorite teacher at SAIC, would be haunting us right now if she weren't a recluse somewhere with her cats and typewriter and amazing pecan pies (last heard was in Kansas/no will never forget her). Coupled with that fear, my friendship with Penelope or AMRF (L), gained traction and flourished over electronic media, and so our tethering together was a wise and pertinent choice at the time, since we were ever faithful in our correspondence- and at the time we'd already had 3 years behind us- so what could go wrong? And wouldn't it always be? ACCOUNTABILITY.

I hold myself to that same standard 9 years later. Why aren't I writing? Telling my friend what's going on and how I feel is a small but significant, however challenging, stab in the face of not writing at all. So for me it has worked in varying degrees, to continue to believe in magic, and act against the dark in us all- perhaps just a gasp- and maybe the blog is a visible record of its success and its neglect- even as our letter writing over email fades in and out you can't really track the loss like you can over yawning gaps on the kronos meter that is the blog. I like it because in that sense it's a truth teller. And that's something isn't it?

2) In these last nine years, what has been your most personal post?

Ooo, I don't know. I'd have to go through the archives. I don't have interns to do that. I will say fresh off anything where I express anger or hurt (not just pithy sarcasm, or epic storytelling) is pretty personal. I try to tread lightly, despite the missteps. But my journey from wrath to a hurt heart is pretty personal- so maybe the arch in general. And that there is something significant in the shift. We rarely argue so when we do... ouch.

3) Are there any topics that are off limits to blogging? If so, what are they?

I think Pen has more than I do. Probably part of our tension. Ironic I will say as she is a non-fiction writer. I probably talk about friends less on here though then I could. I am, I don't know where it came from, a referential writer-- and so to me it's not so much gossiping but struggling over difference. Beth remarked she tried to read our blog, or had off and on but that it felt she was peeping into something personal. It didn't used to be that- it was much more "writerly". Even if you were still reading between the lines and when Pen was still talking about Survivor. It was a big shift for me to begin to write about faith so much, and to try and share that with my cohort- as I felt the things that I was experiencing and going through were difficult to translate and how to translate them over a continent.

4) If this blog continues on for another nine years, what do you suppose you will be writing about then?


Bruckner, you are gifted at question asking. I only have one other friend so adept at it- and that's Danica who gave up reading blogs apparently, but has the same gift at pulling threads. Perhaps I can talk about her more since. But anyway- that's a good question. I'd like it to be less self-conscious of even how boring I can be or same- we have always been conscious of our space and usness. I suppose our proclivity will be to talk about life in varying degrees of honesty and revelation. Perhaps at the end we'll just tweet words after updating only sentences until just symbols will be used to communicate nothing at all but a vague sense of emotionally deceptive circumstances and nothing whatever to do with reality- but it will also be the tension of the two of us- our coming together and our failing in coming together- the shifts and differences in our lives- and if in giving up on the blog does it say we give up on one another? Why should it? Is it something that should keep going or do we consider one more year to make it an even 10 and let ourselves off the hook to do something else? It makes me ponder the cancelation of such a long running show. Long after everyone has gone- something to think about. Like, if as a response to her silence, I return the silence? And for what purpose? Or do I continue to believe and to reach out like a sad extinct species? Or do we keep it neat and clean before anything like that happens? Are we still getting anything out if it and does that matter? Have we surpassed that in relationship when it becomes more about love and covenant than it does about titillating fulfillment. Ive had some sad friendship revelations but I can only hope she and I have built this friendship house on rock. But you never know.

5) If you could go back nine years to just before this blog's inception, what would you tell yourselves about the arduous literary journey ahead?

It's a marathon. It's pace. It's relationship and tenacity. I don't know if that would've helped me or prepared me for what it looks like to be faithful to this construct for so long- 2520 posts? What is that? And is anyone going to care? Does it matter? Are we perhaps being Proust on a larger scale- so that to pluck out the story maybe 100 posts will suffice to tell you something- but not everything. Are we actually succeeding in communicating or is all of this failed chitterchattery. I would've told myself to prepare to repeat yourself over and over and over, and in that, the left over parts is something that won't be swept away, like 50 1st dates- vital remnants remain. I think I would tell myself this is the one and only way you will sometimes be faithful to writing or to your self-- and to believe in what you're building even if you can't really see it. Though maybe more deliberateness- can you imagine if we'd developed a story arc for a decade? like projected what we would do and how it should go? How it's going to end? Maybe that is why we are sometimes a little like Lost.

6) Do either of you have drafts of unfinished posts? If so, how many? And what were your reasons for not pushing the publish button?

Funny that. We are very tidy. Oddly. There are only 4 drafts currently on the blog. 2 of which are being written to you right now, another to pen and there's a fourth but I don't know what it is. But the number is likely to go back to zero. We'll delete them before leaving them to dangle too deathly.

7) Have you ever considered posting under your real names? Would doing so dramatically change your blogging approach?

I've grown so fond of our pseudonyms but it's true- as we've become more personal and less lit/fic meets E! meets...  Why? You could accuse of us of trying to be clever, and writerly. But also we were so sensitive to the current moors of our schooling- of the absolute push to succeed. Hence the blog name and our mocking of fame and but if not that, then what? I'd say maybe if Pen is up for it, we could do that- it would sort of be shocking to me to learn to relate to her as herself. There is and was a barrier in the beginning- but why not write as ourselves? Would it push us to be honest despite the readership? Because of the readership? Would it truly be great and at what cost? Our faces are already out there. But maybe Pen can give better perspective on this. By the nature of being read and known already keeps up hemmed in- what does it matter- would it change how we write? I can't say.

8) If a stranger happens upon your blog for the first time today, what do you believe they'd think about it? What would you want them to think about it?

Oh man, I don't know anymore. I haven't thought about that in a few years. Perhaps after Kurt left us and Sarah stopped blogging or caring if anyone else was. I did have a friend out of blue realize we were still blogging. She said she was surprised and that I was a good writer and loved the piece I wrote about the 'hate letters'. So there is something lovely about being rediscovered. I think I'd want to be known in someway. Some meta way that I don't even know myself. I think though if they were investigative they'd say holyshit! what?! What is this? Who are these people? I don't know if it's entirely obvious at the start. I'd want them to be curious maybe to try and discover and mine and explore the depths and find it worth their time- but I can't say I write with that in mind or that the minutia of our lives is that interesting to anyone who doesn't know us. We've never been good at marketing. It would be funny in this next year to actually market us- with friend quotes and pictures and bios. really make a SALE maybe. Pen what do you think? Also what would it be like to discover us and start from the beginning?! What would keep a reader going? IF it were me? Would I ?

9) Have you ever placed a hidden meaning in a post? If so, would it be too much of me to ask you to share an example? And if it wouldn't be too much for me to ask you to share an example, will you share one?

Absolutely.
No interns.
When another one comes across I will [*] for you.

10) Finally, if Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say about your blog when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Well done, my good and faithful servant.

(A record of love in all it's facets)
M.

Dear Friend,

I suspect technology is trying to keep us apart as much the same as it kept us together. Did you receive my last letter? and the new stationary-

I woke up with some sort of white wine hangover and have been useless today on most fronts. As Cat says it's postwedding we're not married blues. As inevitable as the hangover I guess, or the faux pas of asking where a man's wife was and the divorce is 4 years old. Or the equally inevitable string of people I had marginal to some interest in seeing as 18 years takes its toll on how much enthusiasm one can muster at peppered small talk and being passed from one somewhat interested person to the next and you're just praying someone walks up so you can pingpong to the next. . .

biblio-ADD and other things

Hello from the land of Burt's Bees Lemon Butter Cuticle Cream. I finally cracked and decided $5.99 for a giant container of lovely smelling cracked-cuticles preventative. We're talking years of ghastly nail care here. I don't require bright, shining, enviable nails, but merely an un-ravaged set. Clean, neat and healthy, or as much as they can be taking into account my daily channeling of anxiety into "evening" them all out. With my teeth.

I'm in Book Purgatory once again and it's a terrible, terrible place to be. M. Rescue me. Somebody! The terrible thought entered my brain the other day that I no longer even like books, that they all suck, a waste of time. I cannot even believe the neurons and synapses conjured that assessment, however brief. But nothing is holding me. For months now, I haven't finished one single thing. The next book club selection, which happens to have a fabulous cover of a women flashing a field of cows - midwestern breast cancer story - turned out to be a self-published abomination wherein the "author" copy/pasted her CaringBridge journal into a single document and called it a book. Reader comments and all. Bah. Everything else, meaning the real books I've checked out from the library to try, have failed to hold me. Too dark, too fluffy, too predictable, too copying of the latest popular thing.

Getmeoutofhere.

And I get that death is a part of life, but lately there seems to be a surrounding wave. Excessive hearse sightings. News of passings-on that have been both expected and not. Two and three degrees away, rather than the usual five or six. I don't know what to make of it all except to take in the beauty of remembrances, grieve with the most closely affected, ponder the great beyond...

***
Okay it's days later and that clearly was the middle of a thought or even a sentence.

I did find a book! That so far I like, maybe 35 or so pages in with no ship-jumping thoughts or anything. Thanks, RHE, for being that engaging of a writer. Your thoughts on Martha Stewart's Housekeeping Handbook alone earn a gold star. I'm on exactly the same page with those daily, weekly, monthly and yearly checklists and am totally living in squalor, too.

I've had "Happy Blog-iversary" in my head since Friday at least. Haaaaaaaaaaaaappy Blog-iversary. Woo! Nine years seems both impossible and completely accurate. I do miss the pre-FB, pre-Pinterest, pre-Tumblr days of blogging, when the writing/content took center stage. Now it's all popping in occasionally whenever we can spare a moment away from the mini-micro blogs that are tweets and FB posts. Onward, as ever, but I'm always given pause by the question of, what did we lose?

Also, if I were to create a pie graph of personal energy spent each day - well maybe I should do that. Graph it. Because maybe I'm not really aware of where it's all going. I suspect stressing over failed expectations? Like I'm not doing enough, ever, or whatever I do accomplish somehow lacks. Which is frustrating because I'm doing the best that I can? And it's not only my voice that I hear putting forth this assessment. And some distant part of me is also aware that were those voices to be silenced, I'd probably a whole lot more energy, even creative energy, to expend.

Moving on from that entirely subjective thought strand, let's wish one fourth of our readership a happy birthday! Yay, AA!

The weather-cooling brought on by the formidable Karen-storm occurred behind schedule but is here at last. Windows are thrown open.
A field trip to the farm tomorrow with a group of tiny people is on tap. (Their parents will all be present, too.)
Yesterday I did a 1-mile walk in the sun to help stop hunger - a much different experience than last year's chilly gray 5K walk. I brought a puppy and a 5-year-old with me, so a mile seemed wise.
Today I folded laundry and made ribbon dancers for my preschoolers while watching ProRun. Queue the Helen Meltdown in 5-4-3... I'm so glad TimGunn told her to suck it up in his TimGunn way. And I love Heidi's charming attempts at Americanisms, like "the dangling sausage," and "hitting it on the nail." Also, some surprisingly kickass looks? I'm a little bored of the whole inevitable duking it out among the lower-ranked, but whatever. Still do NOT agree with the Kate oust... rooting for Dom maybe, ultimately? We'll see.

Ah, behold our blog-look. Behold us! I await the questions from another quarter of our readership. I will make it a point to blog just about BUGS next post.
For now - sleep.
xoxoxo to you,
pen

The LOST INTERVIEWS

2005- we were funny and so was our interviewer johann
2006-Johann Visits Wilmington to Interview Penelope
2007- mendacious says, dear Penelope...
2008- no mention... blogdom mourns the forgetfulness of Pen &M.
2009- another shocking "no mention"
2010- woh, wait 3rd year going and mums the word. am I missing someth...
2011- um, seriously? maybe I thought it was a different month? I... uh...
2012- I uh... I feel like we must've mentioned it somewhere in here... oh my GOD.... i'm sure we did.
2013- ...

Part VIIII

Listening to Adele. Playing Gears. Drinking iced-tea. Unsweet. Wearing paintclothes for no particular reason but I'm ready dear friend, for the day.

Happy Anniversary.

It's been 9 years of words exchanged over this enchanted device. And in the midst of having friends that make me think why even bother having enemies, I have you, and I wanted to remind you Narnia is real in the midst of pain and elusive gmail archiving problems. Don't cease to believe. It is the one tragic thing I could not bear in this life, and

If encouraging you is one of my sole purposii in life I am happy to do it. Because you my dear one, are priceless.

It's been a few weeks since I heard from you, and though you can't feel it, there is magic humming at your fingertips- that table is a series of molecules moving at a rate we can't perceive- we run our fingers over the smooth and cool of the surface. It seems so ordinary and we look out- the way the wind whips right now through the sky into the tree, trouncing the leaves they twist shudder and unfurl. They bend but don't break. They fly off and out and the tree won't forget them. The way my cat's whiskers arch and twitch as he yawns. The way the light dances through the eye, the way our muscles move into smiles. The breath, deep in a sigh our whole body responds aching for peace. Rest be with us this day. God be faithful. Bring unity to our hearts and bodies. Bring us to wholeness.

Can I understand the miracle of my hands?
To be silent and let it pass without an exclamation?
To leave you there disbelieving in your extraordinary life?
When look how you are and how much God must love you.
My heart beats fast at the thought.

Let me run into the yard and disappear into space.
And I just went to try but the hose needed to be moved and Twist was mewing at me and I picked her up. That green of her eyes staring wide at me and the pincing of her claws as she wonders why the water is disturbing her rest. She mews. She mews. Her fur a midnight with streaking stars. And the morning glory blooming that ostentatious purple mocking me and the weeds taking over the orderly roses. And the warmth of my flipflops against the sun. And I heard no need to fall away up and out and into because I am right here. You haven't far to go. Sit beside me.

I will, always and forever Penelope,
m.


 

While you've been gone,

I've had a spate of adventures.


This one's for you Bruckner, and for Penelope too.