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.
 

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.

lao-tong

i more than disagree- if disagree means "no". what i feel about equating what i've spent the last 5 years of my life doing with a demonic and/or occasionally hoax like farcical practice that is the ouiji board, can be more accurately described as slightly offended with a main course of that hurts my heart. granted you're not out right telling me to fuckoff, and i appreciate the honesty which is why how can i possibly rail- that's where you're at. it's what you're feeling. i mean yes, i would remind you that the words my mom got and prayed for you weren't demonic, or made up or entirely hers, and they seemed at the time to minister to you- but maybe i misunderstood. i mean leave me out of it entirely and I know God will continue to minister and care for you, but it is a way to cultivate a deeper relationship with God, and it's true i have to resist control, but let me just acknowledge the divide it creates, and the disappointment over something that can't be shared and infact in an instant is being rejected. It hurts. Also though it may not seem like it- since i am seen as a usually very forceful person- sharing something like that with you, and trying to open the door to a large part of my life and going so far as to practice it with you was me being vulnerable-- and excited and expectant.

And that's my own balloon, and the air escaping it and whining out. So I have to take responsibility for it. And that's not yours. But as you sit with your anxiety and worry over the unnamed things. I sit with mine as well for you, on your behalf, along with my ownbags on the curb. And that is not just entirely yours.  I see the trapped and fluttering distressed thing. I share it with you because I love and care for you. Our stories are never are own. They reach out beyond us. As they should. They are not for us. We cannot accurately see ourselves anyway. We are all entwined. And that speaks just as much to covenant and community too. A book apparently i am already a chapter behind on.

Currently, unrelated, i managed to make a necklace. I take this as major breakthrough, and I hope tricia likes it. Besides we are being assailed with hot weather. I'm drinking an unpleasant blackberry jasmine tea or some such and i'm going to go watch the end of miss marple's 'a murder announced', and just the other night a giant raccoon snuck in the backdoor to eat the cat food. The nerve. I wonder if he's what's killing our lawn. A giant spreading patch.

Otherwise the bedframe is 1/2 stained. The room is 1/2 done along with everything else everywhere. But it seems like it's getting on. With every hedge i trim, and angel trumpet i manage to plant. Seems like something is happening. The peaches are delicious. And the abandoned bags of grapefruit in my car make it smell really good. And i did almost cry when danica wondered where all my dresses had got to, but i can only assume God has ones that fit me in store for me. Or he doesn't- and i'll have to make do.

Good night dear friend. Goodnight.
m.



 

and but so

I feel like there are multiple facets of knowing a person, maybe the chronos and kairos of a person, if you will. So even if you’re not completely, vigilantly up on the chronos, or day-to-day (which completely DOES have value, and I love fiercely that you’ve always demanded these details), there is also the kairos. the essence of a person that you know, in spite of those daily shiftings and emergings. and despite all chronos you’ll immediately recognize the kairos after however long apart.

You are MY shiny object. Other than you not being an object and the fact that I don’t really own you. Not really. But you know what I mean. Mine! Shiny! If I were the type to ever talk AT someone until their face fell off, you’d surely be the subject. And that means something, yo.

I feel like I’d struggle but ultimately would hold off on the slaying of words since she IS leaving soon and why leave sour. Her chronos is annoying the shit out of you, but I know her kairos held something.

Yay for the foreign curmudgeons! Like Viktor on ProRun, who I kind of love. Also, accents add something, like the curmudgeonliness is all the more appealing in its delivery. I adore the “things keep getting stranger” comment. And your student scenes, even if it feels like they’re being all unnoteworthy.

You’ve asked me before what I see for the end of your term-sentence, and I do see that obviously you’ll be home after the year, but for the return? I see a changed locale. Even if it’s mainland, but maybe it would be another country in SEA…

Am so sleepy today, could have slept even longer than the 8 or 9 hours I fell into magically last night. I feel slightly cold-ish, like maybe I picked up errant germs at the store or the consignment sale or something. Because no one else has brought it home to me. Book club was a delight as usual, with just three of this time and we spent maybe half and hour mentioning the book almost as an aside. Maybe because we all liked it. And there were no official discussion questions. And we were discussing other things, like children and schools and loose teeth (K.Lo has FOUR allatonce) our geeky pasts (presents?) and oh maybe some church politics. And the dynamic between the women who have been there all their lives and those of us who have chosen to be there, now. Mainly how they don’t talk to us and what is that all about. Is it their financial status or the fact of their comfort zone or maybe they’re just a-holes...? Just pondering out loud. Clearly there hasn’t been a need to expand their worlds beyond what they know. And it’s interesting – of course I’m completely projecting – that it ultimately ends up seeming the difference between having a static faith and a dynamic one. Actively seeking vs. sitting still and being perfectly fine with what is. never stretching beyond. I don’t think I’ve ever in my whole life fallen into static. Like it’s not even in my dna.

More chronos: shutter painting is happening soon. (shutters: black; door: teal.) Ice maker/water dispenser FIXED because of a penelope produced solution, after more than a year and a half I’m just saying. Point, penelope. Gloating, penelope… Potluck dinner at friends’ house tonight (same locale as bookclub), which frankly I’m hoping doesn’t last that long, although I realize I’m baiting Condescending Wonka to mock me and my pretend cold and my wearying introvert. And I want to upload some photo addendums. But then my phone isn’t saving them like it’s supposed to. Which is vexing. But I’ll see if I can figure that out.

love to YOU

penelope

P.S. the literal “fall” in the backyard, the gumball or acorn demonstration of gravity on the metal roof has evolved into a game of Kerplunk, louder, more echoey and insistent as imaginary sticks are removed. someone’s about to lose! anyway j.lo’s going to investigate this weekend what exactly it is that’s falling from the tree (and why this year but not last?). my money at this point’s on marbles.

When we were,

young.

We understood the value of detail like acorns or gumballs dropping on tin roofs. Magical. As the detail now goes out beyond us, to a memory of that one time on that one particular day in an approaching fall.We saw things and we communicated them with a breadth that would shock us now of what it was to describe the infuriating nature of salt build up on windows and how mildew almost destroyed a fragile pile of memories that rose up in conflicting bites of savory and sweet and bitter. I just found some on my bowling shoes. Not sure what to do about it. At least we did all that work before hand and the roots while sometimes i think they must be shallow are actually really deep. Not that our friendship is dying off, but that it's spread beyond is such a lovely thing. A canopy. A network I wish would outlive us. Is that my sole reason to want kids? Maybe.

But long distance is hard right? Let's get back to that. We seem close. Maybe just nextdoor away. But that's only because I can picture what you're putting on your eggs right now as i cook mine. We spent a couple years perfecting Chi-NC, We spent even more years managing NC to LA- for better and worse and less blogging and now KOR. what do we have if we don't have letters? or emails? or postcards? Especially if the details are lost. If we don't push ourselves to share them... because that's when we see the fragility and the strain and the sudden forgetfulness of really important things. Not just vacations, but shifts, across continents of what shapes us.  Of course we won't let that happen. I'm too neurotic. You're too sensitive. But we can see how suddenly our knowing of one another can in an instant cease to be.

But revisiting always brings about discovery and familiarity. And I love that. Anyway, you'll be spared from more meandering philisophic since i'm itching to just sit and stare into space and perhaps write a postcard or two as i nurse the last of my large iced latte in the atmosphere of the idyllic inbetween of approaching fall and reminents of summer as a Kpop soundtrack plays over head and the wind rustles a plant that looks like it is either dying from lack of water or is still traumatized from typhoon sanba. (Matt says he survived a typhoon but he was really only out and about in a tropical depression... I hope this lovely weather lasts through his coming too. Yesterday morning his mom emailed me and asked if i'd heard from him and i hadn't in the last week. I wasn't too worried but I was prepared to do some calling if I had to but he surfaced not 6minutes before I came home to check on his itinerary. Ah international traveling.)

And me, this sunday will mark my official 9months/36wks out. 19wks/4 months left.
I am wearing an emily shirt (an eddie bauer red and white pinstriped cotton longsleeved thing and black workout pants- luckily with working elastic) and flipflops. my toenails are hot pink. and i'm wearing my grandfathers wedding ring on my right hand. The layering in my hair is growing out pretty fantastically and i'm determined to do (unrelated to hair) more ab exercises to help strengthen my lower back... and volleyball this weekend... and who knows what else. good food i hope. and sitting by the shore.

Sending my love in your direction,
xo
m.

A brief dialogue from Pen and M.

---

Date: Wed, 2 Nov 2011 19:34:27 -0400
Subject: Re:
From: penelope

To: mendacious

 

good grief i don't actually .... psshhhaw. ....an ordinary computer. .... ick. maybe...

... bank breakup! i totally empathize. those @(#*&@$...  

...i spent most of the day .... about........ immortal .....  laguna .....dontjudge. 

---

 
On Wed, Nov 2, 2011 at 8:22 PM, mendacious> wrote:

juuuuuuuuddddddddggggggggggggging.

 

---

Date: Wed, 2 Nov 2011 20:30:03 -0400
Subject: Re: ps
From: penelope

To: mendacious

omg. where is the middle-finger emoticon. 

 

Mediocrity Revisited,

: of moderate or low quality, value, ability, or performance : ordinary, so-so

she reads

the girl explores worlds. She holds hands with make-believe. She is not a stranger to the imagination and she is a friend to mystery and maybe vampires. She skips to the end because the journey she takes means something and does not want to be betrayed.

she writes

the girl puts pen to paper. Her hands to keys. She has many whirling wild words that are powerful, mightier than a sword on the matter of love, on the matter of pain- life, friendship. She knows about things even gross things like ticks and beautiful things like flutterbies. She sees things in a shimmer and in angles of light unperceived and in the dark places too- she finds. There she is. There we are too. Bring us there. She's doing it now.

she bakes

the girl has a taste for things and of flavors. Of textures. She creates. She makes things that nourish, bring delight, savory mmms. She twines memory with her hands and imparts the good and true things without saying a word. We all need to be fed. She raptures us from an oven. 

she cuts hair.

She is as she goes like the bangle purse, the glasses, the boots—a bit of a badass. She has determined to mold herself into something creative and not necessarily in need of a box.

she doodles

as she says she must express.

she plants

to bring things to life, to add new fragrance and color to her life. She understands about living and the breathing and being of things. Of what it does for the soul and for the spirit. How it redirects the mind to glory, ever optimistic in it - there she attempts it, this simple exploration- tend to it.

she photographs

of late stepping up her game to capture the transcendence of youth, of her family life, and the sometimes zenith of herself.

she paints walls.

To bring order and mood into alignment. She is not immune to whimsy and the deep need we all have for the color red. She masters it.

she tends to children.

The little barbarians. She is after all a mother and that IS a full-time job. Why deny it?

she daydreams

and catches moments to herself. She watches clouds and flowers and grass. She is attentive to the humming buzzing universe and it's right at the tip of her senses. She loses herself there sometimes. The what ifs, could bes mind talking to soul and God stuff.

she analyzes

a mind that’s sharp and sometimes lies, is cruel to itself but also kind— the path networked at her skin.

she respects the need for rules (while at the same time despising the constructs).

She is Penelope after all- sometimes anxious and rebellious, but mostly a builder of life- she does not like to risk the stability of that simple and yet complex -- paradoxical? fact.

she wonders

worlds. Wonders relationship. Wonders tension. Wonders God. She vibrates.

she observes

takes notes, rolls her eyes. She is not immune. She nods her head in approval too.

she snarks

see above.

she calls bullshit

see above.

she demands

of life answers, of herself, her children, her husband. We would call this passion. We would call this fight.

she listens

and catches what she can.

she feels

and expresses when she’s ready.

she cares.

Deeply.

she has no idea what to do with any of it.

that last one shouldn’t be a talent

but it is

it’s not a boohoo

just a statement –

she’s a pen of many small trades

master of none.

I KNOW, but i need to say still,

It is not the parts but the sum total that makes a life excel. And you are. The whole of you says, I create. I bring into being. The whole of you says you hum with a life that is extraordinary-- full of fight and effort. It does not seem so, but it is true. The words and actions get lost against the judgment we confer upon ourselves. How small we make ourselves. I understand. I identify. I have my own list but i had to tell you anyway.


m.

must find the time to say more,

hi friends. look at these two ladies. they make me happy. i met them both in chicago in the same year.

and now of course i thought they both had blue eyes... like a grey blue. maybe. but no. they both rather vehemently asserted that after 10+years of knowing them that no, no, we have GREEN EYES! whoops. of course i feel they've been lied to their entire lives but whatever. Green. Ok. How can I argue with those faces. i did admit its my narcissism that keeps me from believing them. there's a whole range of blues and greens- what we're talking about is being aware of nuance. but anyway it is perhaps because we have most of our friendship on paper as i had about 2ish years with cath and almost a year with pen. my two far away penpals. but i can only blame their lack of sending me pictures so much. i hang my head in shame. light sage maybe? i know they both have blonde hair though as they get older they argue with me more about the color it's turning. strangely i had a dream about accidently dying my hair blonde just last night. hmm.

i do like though that friendship is a constant discovery and because we haven't spent years asking every question of one another, surprising things come out even if we're just blinking at one another or yelling at one another from opposite rooms. i met them both when i was a grad student in chicago. cathy was working at borders with me and would come up and give me hugs in the kid section. it was as if i had always been her neighbor. she obviously gets high points for having been raised in southern california. we speak a similar language. penelope would sit in our seminar class and not say a word. 4 at least six months. unnerving but powerful. as i would always give her sideways glances and ponder her mysterious ways. and even then we were reading each others stories literally from day to day, so it translated quite nicely when email after email we built something lovely out of inanimate and electronic objects. words. circuitry. fused by snark, anxiety, and poetry.

i'm not sure what i would do without these women. sometimes yes i do think they might be figments of my imagination. but luckily i am reminded that i am not that creative. but mightily blessed.

the journey begins, by pen

 

How I’ll tap into the “math, science-y” part of my head, as provided by mendacious. (Doesn’t she rock?) It has equations, guys! And what m doesn’t know is that I was just the other day gazing at soap bubbles floating in the air and pondering their spherical perfection… and then second-guessing that perfection. And wondering if anyone had ever looked into the matter. Sometimes, the Universe responds to one’s cosmic questions!

Sorta Like When My Friend Tim Died and I didn't find out until 3 years later.

My friend "Ivy" is a heroin addict. Good times! (Eye Twitch). I think I could write 5 posts of long length and still not be quite done at purging myself of that statement.

There was recent debate this last Saturday if I've gotten better at letting go of friends and then I thought, no, I've just gotten better at accepting loss and disappointment. But honestly it's a call I never even imagined in a nightmare reality I would get. Hi, M this is W. We found her stash and we need to get her into rehab and we need a favor... Can you come watch her kid and make sure she doesn't try to go anywhere?

Sure, I found myself saying. What did you just say?! I think I just said, Sure, ok.

Part of me can't really find the words past: stunned. Partly not surprised now that I've read this Narcotics Anonymous letter about the self-obsessed person that this happened to her. Because the letter as pat as it is, is all things I've always preceived about her. Of course my friend Matt sees it clinically as he manages a half-way house: She is grappling with a very serious disease, that is going to need a lifetime of help fighting. (yes.) Her moms view: I never wanted this for you. You are a shell of my daughter and I want YOU back. (yes.) Mine: She's dead. A demon has set up shop in her soul and though she looks, sounds and vaguely resembles the girl I knew at 14, very little of her is left. Less fatalistically I find myself thinking, there's an 80% failure rate at rehab. Then I think maybe, she'll be part of the 20%, if she goes. And even then. It's going to be a long hard fight.

But the whole weekend I spent with her caring for her daughter, whose only mimic is a heroin addict I kept thinking: She's dead, and I'm talking to a ghost, a distant apparition that a demon inhabits. And she's not ever coming back. It's one thing to have a friend who is in an abusive relationship, because then you think maybe they'll snap out of it or that you'll be able to pull them from the situation... It always seems like she wanted to and then there was that switch where all she wanted was oblivion and since she moved to Tulsa I have a notion she's been trying to kill herself in various reckless ways for the past 7 years... And I can trace it back a long ways to when I knew her in the beginning.

It's not that I do not wish for her to return. I just know that she will never be able to. As none of us can from annilation. And it's not that I don't have compassion because I want her to be healed, but when and if she surfaces it will be to a battle worn fighter. And that's ok. She'll have my love and respect and I'll speak to her as someone who has known her for a very long time. But for now, those demons remain unexercised and what I encountered is the reality of someone who speaks and acts and is a drug-addict.

Whose body is hunched, worn-thin and wasted to wane skin, and sinewy arms. And her once beautiful face reduced to pock marks and the poison that runs through her is erupting all over her face in sores as she abstractly itches and picks at it. Who strains to eat, who cannot finish a glass of water, who spasms and stoops on the ground as she shudders through the strains of detox with a popsicle in her hand. Who says, M, tell me about your aunt and uncle's fairytale because she knows there's a lesson in it. About how they had a house and a pool and two lovely children, and then they lost the house and the pool and all the money and how their children grew up shorn with pain. And how it didn't matter bcs they stole everything in sight to feed the monster, collecting cans on the street- It's a monster Ivy that only you know how to talk to. Yes, she says, I see the elephant in the room. No, I say, the monster in the room that only you think you can control. And you can't and I see you desperately fighting for a semblance of control and some part of you came out here to try and get control and only you who thinks its as easy as a formula of dates and expectations. But can't get past being angry at your mother and resentful at your brother and afraid that they're going to take your daughter away. But I know how this story ends, can end, and it ends with violence and sorrow no matter how great the hope, if you think this thing doesn't hold you in a death grip.

She, who told me- calm, because of the meds, that at least she didn't have to hook for a fix, who took up dealing and litmus'ing product to be sure it was cut clean. Cut. Clean. Who with caged eyes asked what I knew, why I was there. Who could only greet me as one greets a friend turned jailor. Whose daughter at 3.3 isn't nearly potty trained and first words were curses bcs of her drug addict father. Who knows mommy needs medicine for her tummy and how my friend thinks her daughter, a care-giver, is ok. And that in getting clean surrounded by squares and stiffs she's going to give birth to an alien filled with all the backwatered emotion she's been holding in all these years. And I say, all the toxic evil shit. The bad, the dark, the unspoken. And she says, It's ok to have secrets and the mentality of an addict is one who is claustraphobic and can't ever find distance from all the things coming at them. And I say, it's not ok to have secrets, not ok to constantly duck the slings and arrows of your life. I think, I thought... you were stronger than that, more becoming of triumphant movies and not ones like reqium for a dream, basquiat, and trainspotting. More willing to weather the storm and find a toe-hold...

And yet, you my friend were swept away and living wholly in a world I disdain.

you guys ROCK. (for heaven's sake!)

So, like every time I do a negative friendship post, I seem to inspire feelings of paranoia in my dear, lovely, sweet, cool friends? It's so sad! I'm only philosophizing out loud, and trust me, if it were you, you would totally know. Wouldn't you? No, you would totally pick up on the cues, because you are not oblivious. I hope I show enough that I'm appreciative of our friendship. I hope I'm not so passive aggressive that we would break up over a blog post. The person or persons I speak of don't even read this blog. And anyway, in spite of my snarky shell, I am just not a Mean Girl! And I love and appreciate my friends. My blogger pals, my playgroup cohorts, my writers' group, my email buddies, my fellow neighborhood mamas. My girls who live here in Wilmy, and those who have moved away but have kept in touch. My mendacious out in Cali. The gals I've never even met in person. I love you all! You are absolutely invaluable to me and my everyday experience. The humor, the snark, the sweetness, the advice, the idea exchange, the support, the stories, the outings, the endeavors, the (mis)adventures. I'm totally giving a sickly-sweet pseudo Oscar speech here, but I totally mean it. Invaluable! Love you! Would never break up with you through a blog post! That is all. xoxo, pen.

Penelope Pussycat

Mendacious is always going on about friends and friendships, and though she is an uncompromising Taurus and I a gentle Pisces fish, I am apparently not so kind in certain friendship-related matters. Mendacious can forgive, look past major faults in some instances, and I can be so merciless.

By nature, I look for the good in people, almost to a fault, like I will excuse a person's behavior and defend them to the last when they are criticized by another. I'll be like, "Well maybe she...," or "But I don't think he meant..." Even when she totally did do it, and he totally meant it. It crushes me to see formerly good friendships die. I'll mediate wherever possible, until I remember that it's not my business or place to clear the air between two parties, it's totally up to them, their choice to make or not make. And sometimes friendships need to die, or even just rest for a little while.

As forgiving as I am, though, as open as I am to the bond of friendship, as willing as I am to meet a person halfway in a relationship, when I'm done, I'm done. If I see something so inherently broken with the person, or the friendship, or the energy between us that it can't possibly be fixed, I move on, and that's it. There are just some people I don't mesh as well with, and no amount of conversation or effort will alter that fact.

What I really can't stand, though, is when the other person cannot see that it's over. Or at the very least, that they should back off. I mean, probably that's part of what's so broken about the energy between us to begin with, what turns me off so much. I don't respond well to smothering. All bribery attempts will be shunned. Burying me in sugary compliments will only make me gag. Requests for more/any time together? Denied. I truly am Penelope Pussycat, and the more you chase me, the more I will try and hide.

See, I'm merciless. Probably I should at least extend to the offending party the courtesy of full disclosure, tell them why exactly it's over. But if it's an unsolvable problem, I don't see the point? I'd rather us both just wordlessly acknowledge that it's not working out, and then we can be civil in spite of the necessary detachment. Sometimes, you have to deal with the person regardless, even if you can't be friends, so why instigate drama and strife, when in the end you'll be left with the same set of circumstances.

I fear that this is all very bad friendship karma, and that perhaps I've been just as much the offending party in certain relationships. Although, I would hope that I am not that oblivious to those social cues, the ones that clearly say, Um, yeah, it's just not going to work out, between me and you.

Certainly we've all been in and/or will be in relationships where what you give is not what you receive in return. And it sucks, really. But when as a friend, I'm just not that into you, is not telling you to your face the kinder thing to do?

Mendacious Apparel

As we all know I have a very detailed book on all my friends. Why they annoy me, certain phrases and topics to avoid while in their presense, how many years they've been in my service, what I like about them, how many presents I've failed to give them... and on rare occassions a row of gold stars for service above and beyond.

Amber is one such well documented friend. There was a small incident of not speaking to her for a year but I have hopes that we'll last at least another 10years before another meltdown. (detailed recordings to be found in the book). She's going to vote for Hilary for instance. Yikes. And she's nearly a socialist on some things and a despot in others, but luckily a sharp wit and the same sense of logic and sisterhood are the ties that bind. She is one of the best, 'hang out and just live' friends I've ever had. I can very easily talk to and or see her every day and only want to kill her every 5th day or 95th hour, depending. Anyway she borrowed some paint clothes and devoted 12+ unflinching uncomplaining hours. She just willingly unbegrudgingly toiled away with me. And then came over the next day to finish the job. I can only hope we continue to rise together to the calling of sister. And she totally knows I'll have to help her move now, again, when she does, again. I am such a sucker. Amber and I having been friends for so long, makes it easy. Because she's become family and understands and wants to aid me in my restoration of the house, my need for a job, my projects, my desires...in such a casual dead on way when offering help, advice or a sarcastic remark.

I don't really like asking people for help, and I usually prefer to plod along the field, and if others join me I'm contented. If not, I am sulky but still I rarely impose. I need to get better at asking for help and unbegrudgingly giving it to others. But it comes with time I think and a certain inclination. Once my friend Wendy (who I've known since kindergarten) was over and we were 11 or 12 and I had to wash the dishes before I could play. I asked her to help me and she said no. At the time I must've been shocked and didn't have the tier level grading system in place, or she wouldve been downgraded immediately. But at the time I was impressed she actually stood up to me, but in another I remember her saying, I have to do that all time time too. And I think that's what stuck with me the most. I hated washing dishes. Why would I want to subject anyone else to the same thing.... etc. Except you see, we both wanted the same thing, to go play. Why wouldn't a friend want to help you achieve that end? You can see, it's all post-traumatic even stress and what not.

Anyway GrainofSand came over on what turned out to be another ill-fated car weekend, and on my dad's bad recollection at that- as in a 40min +gas and time drive over the hill for the mechanic to be closing at 1 instead of 4 as my father stated. Tragic. She came in despite the bad start to the day as a pinch hitter and did some spackling and saved my life on 2 of the windows and the meticulous trim. Because really that's what takes the longest and is oh so annoying. She is also wearing some improvised mendacious approved painting clothes. She and Amber have some errily similar attitudes toward things, both not liking strangers, have mostly reddish hair, and a strong sense of justice, as well as the very specific need for strict hygenie rituals which I ignore, and fair skin.

My life is richly rewarded because they're in it. And for that I thank thee. (Thee meaning them.) But if you're reading this and a friend I thank thee too. Special merit badges to anyone who has helped me paint, sand, build, level, dig, demolish, tidy, move straighten or haul anything.

The end result foth coming... in photos.

Is Resistance Futile?

Over the last decade, especially in my more anxious and paranoid years I latched onto betrayal and trust as a concept litmus test for friends. Can i really trust them, and do they really trust me. And if I thought you didn't trust me as a friend I really did relegate you to the lower orders. (I'm really much more sympathetic now, Ithink) TRUST. Part of me had to believe I could, no matter what, count on their friendship like an anchor lest i be caught adrift- but people as well as friendships are not made of unbreakable iron stuff, usually. Thus my constant disillusionment. But it took on larger significance as i began to identify certain qualities in people in general that I would then say, they'd sell me to the gestapo in a second. Or, a very few, I think they'd fight with me in the resistance. Obviously I developed a bit of a persecution complex. Something I've been honing since my early youth. This is me- and that is THEM out there. And i would, and still innately but more quietly, do apply that standard to everyone i meet and every place I work. Which takes on in each instance the epic quality of the apocalypse, hostile takeover, warfare, catastrophe and disaster. What would they do, what would I do? And WHY. My curiosity at the very least of trying to understand motivation has opened the door to compassion but STILL- the inevitable fact remains: would you sell me out to save yourself?

Last night amber and I stumbled upon this test from okcupid and we thought- how appropriate! – about whether we’d be Nazis or not- bcs we had this whole discussion at dinner with dad about how he should be an advocate for people who go thru bullshit with building and safety since he’s so traumatized- and he said its no use, fighting, it’s all corrupt and horrible and you can’t change anything- I was like, that’s horrible dad- you’re why nazi germany happened. (And my dad is 50% german so this totally matters.) And for one second I saw a wry smile play on his lips like he’d been had and then it vanished under grumpy old man- and he went off about how most wars- including our American revolution and the civil war only involved 30% of the population- which is such a dad thing to know- and the rest were ambivalent or more apathetic about the outcome. So then amber (who's also German and a Von at that) and I took the test- which you know, we can't vouch for the validity of- but onward, only 5% precent of all test takers are members of the resistance and the rest- EEK!—mom took the test and she was an Expatriate. (meaning of course she fled or escaped the country which i imagine we helped her to do and felt really good about as we stayed on and faught. mom really shouldn't be there to witness the horror anyway, she should go on and spread her light to the world) I am proud to say both amber and were members of the RESISTANCE… so then we sent the test to dad- but mom informed us he was asleep on the couch. it’ll be funny to see what dad gets- when he’s not busy falling asleep or making aggressive racist and defamatory remarks at dinnertime just because he can, and because its easy- what is the old man switch that suddenly you loose all social decorum and grace and the ability to communicate- granted he’s never had the latter- but I can’t believe he spoke like he speaks when he was 31. you should've heard him at dinner. he'd like to believe that, as we all at one time would, that we'd fight for what we believe, help the persecuted and the downtrodden or stand against what's patently wrong- but MOST really wouldn't. I mean he won't even fight for the principle behind the small things. But lets not be disheartened. Not all of us are fighters and we don't need to be. so those that do have a voice should use theirs when they really need to. that's all. It's just a curious thing to ponder and of course it just gives me one more thing to print out and know about myself, like some validation for what i've always believed about myself and how really i need to find my very own rare resistance fighter to love me and carry me off. but how hard are they to find?! I mean 5% yeesh!

Then of course, promptly after, i took my Know Your Own Death test- and accordingly I will be living to around 2057. And dying of a heartattack at the ripe age of 76. This has always seemed to be a good age to die to me. I may feel differently later as it seems a bit far off now but for the record- just in case- i'm okay with it. and of course if you know of anyone who would also be living to about that age and is male and a member of the resistance also- you can feel free to send him my way.