The night is cool. The lighted ball field stands out against the darkness, the mercury lights pushing back against the thick black clouds threatening to smother us. I am back on my perch at the end of the metal bleachers. My khaki grey cargo pants and thick hoodie do little to protect me from the army of mosquitoes in the air.
It is Max's last little league game of the season. It is the top of the fifth of six innings and his team is winning eleven to zero. It is almost time for Max to bat. I walk up behind, speaking to him through the chain link fence as he sits on the bench in the dugout.
"Max. Swing at the first three pitches you get."
"No way!"
He either has a fear of the ball or doesn't want to be embarrassed by striking out. He has learned if he's patient he has a fifty-fifty chance of being walked. Once he learned that, he stopped swinging.
I don't push the issue. I return to my seat to watch. He walks.
I don't blame him. When I was around six my older brother and I were playing baseball with some friends at the end of our culdesac. I was playing catcher. My brother says I was hit by the bat. I think I was hit by the ball. Either way I ended up in the emergency room with my father, a big black eye and no desire to ever play the game again.
Imagine my thrill when I found out the ex-wife signed Max up to play-- soccer was so much more fun to watch.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Our Word Give Us Away
"Our words give us away." It seem like the phrase should come from the lyrics of a familiar song but I can't seem to remember the tune. Help me please if you do. It is not the spoken words I'm referring too. Those only hold the weight our bodies and our actions give them. "Actions speak louder then words," is one of my favorite mantra.
I am referring to the written words. The post we make on the blog we pseudo-anonymously hide behind. I have this theory, the more popular the blog the more contrived the posts. Perhaps that is just sour grapes over my decline in readership. I am often told by some that no one thinks like I do. I haven't decided if that is a bad thing or not. I'm leaning toward feeling it is a good thing-- just not a comforting thing.
So why the title? What am I trying to say? A couple things and nothing. I feel I should be writing but am short on material-- for now. Lately I'd rather be talking then writing. Though the talking does lead to writing. I have left those in the draft mood for now. The thing I want to say here I have been reluctant to print because-- our word give u away.
I am referring to the written words. The post we make on the blog we pseudo-anonymously hide behind. I have this theory, the more popular the blog the more contrived the posts. Perhaps that is just sour grapes over my decline in readership. I am often told by some that no one thinks like I do. I haven't decided if that is a bad thing or not. I'm leaning toward feeling it is a good thing-- just not a comforting thing.
So why the title? What am I trying to say? A couple things and nothing. I feel I should be writing but am short on material-- for now. Lately I'd rather be talking then writing. Though the talking does lead to writing. I have left those in the draft mood for now. The thing I want to say here I have been reluctant to print because-- our word give u away.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The Times We Remember
We talk.
She says, "no one seems to remember what tomorrow is."
"Perhaps it is a day that shouldn't be remembered", I counter.
We debate reasons, twist words and invent labels to no avail. There would be no influencing the other. We end, agreeing to disagree.
The conversation moves onto silent packs from the past and futures unseen. She talks about a time when she looked fifteen years into her future and decided what should be. I say that is fifteen years in my past. Later I think about it.
A time before I created my youngest child.
Before I proved that I could do what was thought impossible.
Before I had the tattoos I look upon with pride.
It was before I journeyed to China.
Before I'd seen the lights of Las Vegas.
I had yet to learn the importance of lifelong friendships.
I had yet to see that somethings cannot be explained.
I had not seen Linkin Park in concert.
It was before the weekend when everything was almost right.
It was before this blog was started.
It was before I could meet you.
Those fifteen years she marked are coming to a close. I've decided the next will prove to be remarkable. And my answer to her would be-- no it isn't enough.
She says, "no one seems to remember what tomorrow is."
"Perhaps it is a day that shouldn't be remembered", I counter.
We debate reasons, twist words and invent labels to no avail. There would be no influencing the other. We end, agreeing to disagree.
The conversation moves onto silent packs from the past and futures unseen. She talks about a time when she looked fifteen years into her future and decided what should be. I say that is fifteen years in my past. Later I think about it.
A time before I created my youngest child.
Before I proved that I could do what was thought impossible.
Before I had the tattoos I look upon with pride.
It was before I journeyed to China.
Before I'd seen the lights of Las Vegas.
I had yet to learn the importance of lifelong friendships.
I had yet to see that somethings cannot be explained.
I had not seen Linkin Park in concert.
It was before the weekend when everything was almost right.
It was before this blog was started.
It was before I could meet you.
Those fifteen years she marked are coming to a close. I've decided the next will prove to be remarkable. And my answer to her would be-- no it isn't enough.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Second Day After
I sit on the edge of the bed, my eyes unfocused. I realize I am staring at nothing and shake my head to snap out of it. I head to the bathroom; turn the shower on.
I remember driving off to Neverland. Tinkerbell is awaiting my arrival. Text messages are flying back and forth.
"Where are you?" Tink asks.
"Are you high or just pissed off? Depressed?" From Pandora.
"Chances are I'll have been all three by the end of the night."
"Be safe no pills..."
The mermaids are on the prowl but I ignore them. Tinkerbell and I sit within the din talking and drinking. She is no longer my companion on flights of fancy, goading me to recklessness. Her words are more like Wendy's, reproachful, motherly. I want to rail against her wisdoms but my own past condemns me and I don't feel like Peter anymore.
I watch when she takes flight. She flutters beneath the lights. She is beautiful. She is beyond reach. When she settles back beside me, she talks about the island. I watch her face closely, reading her words as much as hearing them. When she flutters off again I get up. My legs are unsteady beneath me. I go relieve myself and quickly return to the security of my seat. While sitting I do not feel the effects of the drinks but I do feel an overwhelming sadness I can't control.
The hot water spills over me, soothing my many aches. I find myself sitting in the corner of the shower stall, the water tapping on my skull. Time washes down the drain and my eyes stare at nothing--again.
Mermaids swim the darkness, most keep their distance fearing Tinkerbell's temper. I brush off the advances of those desperate enough to make a half-hearted attempt at engaging my attention. More text messages are swapped. My meanings garbled.
I've pulled myself together by the time Tinkerbell returns. Her watchful eye appraising me yet not seeing through the fog of her own indulgence. I am tired. The night has done nothing to lift my spirits. My head is clear enough to drive but not to think. We say are goodbyes.
I call Pandora from the car but still can not articulate my thoughts. I can feel my words building barriers between us instead of removing them. I give up by the time I get home. Too foggy to think, I resign myself to saying goodnight.
Water droplets still nestle on the small of my back. I need to get moving. The phone is ringing off the hook. The fires of discontent are burning brightly with two different customers--my company's self made funeral pyre. A friend is distraught-- her life is in turmoil. I look at the deep red sheets of my bed longingly before bundling my computer, keys, wallet and phone into me hands.
I call Pandora. Her voice is heavy with sleep. She sounds adorable. It makes me smile. I imagine briefly lying next to her, feel the touch of her warmth body against mine, hearing her as she breathes words against my chest, smelling the sent of her hair. I tell her to go back to sleep. Ask her to call me later. I tell her I'm having one of "those days".
When she calls, I take a break from fighting fires. I have them down to a slow roasting inferno. She is cranky from a lack of sleep and a lack of food. I still think she sounds adorable but she is in no mood to hear it. She scolds me. Reminds me what I already know. I can't argue. I know what to expect from the second day after but where does it leave me.
I remember driving off to Neverland. Tinkerbell is awaiting my arrival. Text messages are flying back and forth.
"Where are you?" Tink asks.
"Are you high or just pissed off? Depressed?" From Pandora.
"Chances are I'll have been all three by the end of the night."
"Be safe no pills..."
The mermaids are on the prowl but I ignore them. Tinkerbell and I sit within the din talking and drinking. She is no longer my companion on flights of fancy, goading me to recklessness. Her words are more like Wendy's, reproachful, motherly. I want to rail against her wisdoms but my own past condemns me and I don't feel like Peter anymore.
I watch when she takes flight. She flutters beneath the lights. She is beautiful. She is beyond reach. When she settles back beside me, she talks about the island. I watch her face closely, reading her words as much as hearing them. When she flutters off again I get up. My legs are unsteady beneath me. I go relieve myself and quickly return to the security of my seat. While sitting I do not feel the effects of the drinks but I do feel an overwhelming sadness I can't control.
The hot water spills over me, soothing my many aches. I find myself sitting in the corner of the shower stall, the water tapping on my skull. Time washes down the drain and my eyes stare at nothing--again.
Mermaids swim the darkness, most keep their distance fearing Tinkerbell's temper. I brush off the advances of those desperate enough to make a half-hearted attempt at engaging my attention. More text messages are swapped. My meanings garbled.
I've pulled myself together by the time Tinkerbell returns. Her watchful eye appraising me yet not seeing through the fog of her own indulgence. I am tired. The night has done nothing to lift my spirits. My head is clear enough to drive but not to think. We say are goodbyes.
I call Pandora from the car but still can not articulate my thoughts. I can feel my words building barriers between us instead of removing them. I give up by the time I get home. Too foggy to think, I resign myself to saying goodnight.
Water droplets still nestle on the small of my back. I need to get moving. The phone is ringing off the hook. The fires of discontent are burning brightly with two different customers--my company's self made funeral pyre. A friend is distraught-- her life is in turmoil. I look at the deep red sheets of my bed longingly before bundling my computer, keys, wallet and phone into me hands.
I call Pandora. Her voice is heavy with sleep. She sounds adorable. It makes me smile. I imagine briefly lying next to her, feel the touch of her warmth body against mine, hearing her as she breathes words against my chest, smelling the sent of her hair. I tell her to go back to sleep. Ask her to call me later. I tell her I'm having one of "those days".
When she calls, I take a break from fighting fires. I have them down to a slow roasting inferno. She is cranky from a lack of sleep and a lack of food. I still think she sounds adorable but she is in no mood to hear it. She scolds me. Reminds me what I already know. I can't argue. I know what to expect from the second day after but where does it leave me.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Focus
It is morning. The heat is already rising. I can tell it will be an oppressive afternoon. I can feel every bump in the road as I drive #1's pale green Ford Focus. The engine whines as I take off from a traffic light.
The car, only two years old, is suffering from battered vehicle syndrome. A tangle of multicolored tree shaped air fresheners are roped around the parking brake between the seats. Their thick odor is both pungent and appealing. They hide the memory of to many discarded McDonald's bags.
I have the windows down. I can feel the eyes of the passenger in the SUV next to me looking, over as we roll up to another red light. I imagine him reading the bumper sticker stuck across the steering wheel. It's large white letters against a sea of black reminding me, "Strippers Are People Too".
I have her car because it has an electrical problem. I've diagnosed it to a burnt fuse caused by a short probably in the light switch. Pandora would describe her as my heroin, the reason I rescue the heroine time and again. I don't know anymore. #1 is my friend that's just what I do. It makes me fell needed. Makes me feel good.
At the end of the day #1 knows she can count on someone, no matter when, no matter why. We all need someone like that. Don't we?
The car, only two years old, is suffering from battered vehicle syndrome. A tangle of multicolored tree shaped air fresheners are roped around the parking brake between the seats. Their thick odor is both pungent and appealing. They hide the memory of to many discarded McDonald's bags.
I have the windows down. I can feel the eyes of the passenger in the SUV next to me looking, over as we roll up to another red light. I imagine him reading the bumper sticker stuck across the steering wheel. It's large white letters against a sea of black reminding me, "Strippers Are People Too".
I have her car because it has an electrical problem. I've diagnosed it to a burnt fuse caused by a short probably in the light switch. Pandora would describe her as my heroin, the reason I rescue the heroine time and again. I don't know anymore. #1 is my friend that's just what I do. It makes me fell needed. Makes me feel good.
At the end of the day #1 knows she can count on someone, no matter when, no matter why. We all need someone like that. Don't we?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Consistency
Consistency... the mother of ignorance.
The Ex has gotten rid of her boyfriend and is dating someone new. A switch that seemingly happened overnight. Tuesday the boyfriend is at Max's little league game hugging him and cheering him on then Thursday the new guy is there. Now I'm not a child of divorce myself but that has to be a bit confusing for a ten year old.
I've started talking to Max about it but didn't have a lot of time. I wasn't until Sunday that the boys confirmed what was going on. I never directly asked though I pretty much know, probably before the boyfriend.
Wednesday when I asked who's car was in the driveway Max said mom's new friend from Facebook, someone from high school. She had a crush on him when she was in high school he told me. I was not surprised, in fact I laughed. When the Ex decided she wanted a divorce from me she began by looking up an old boyfriend from high school on Classmates.com.
I don't care who she dates. I have no positive feeling toward her. I do hate the fact she allows the boys to get attached to these guys. And I don't understand her desire to prance the new guy infront of me. She texted me making sure I was going to the baseball game. She actually talked to me during the game, something she usually avoids. She tried to get me to pick the boys up early on Wednesday so I would get there while he and her were still home.
I don't think she even knows she does it. She is so bitter toward me she probably has this unconcieous need to try to annoy me. She thinks she is actually over the divorce. Yet she doesn't even have my phone number saved in her phone. A number she needs to use to call the boys when it is my weekend. Even though the kids use her phone too.
The other day she asked me. "Did you get my text?" I said no. "She looked at her phone and figured out she sent it to the wrong number. If not saving my number to her phone doesn't scream issue I don't know what does. Yet when she needs to be taken to the hospital because of a kidney stone who did she call? If I mentioned it she would say I'm just spouting psychobabble.
Consistency... Good to know SOMETHINGS never change.
The Ex has gotten rid of her boyfriend and is dating someone new. A switch that seemingly happened overnight. Tuesday the boyfriend is at Max's little league game hugging him and cheering him on then Thursday the new guy is there. Now I'm not a child of divorce myself but that has to be a bit confusing for a ten year old.
I've started talking to Max about it but didn't have a lot of time. I wasn't until Sunday that the boys confirmed what was going on. I never directly asked though I pretty much know, probably before the boyfriend.
Wednesday when I asked who's car was in the driveway Max said mom's new friend from Facebook, someone from high school. She had a crush on him when she was in high school he told me. I was not surprised, in fact I laughed. When the Ex decided she wanted a divorce from me she began by looking up an old boyfriend from high school on Classmates.com.
I don't care who she dates. I have no positive feeling toward her. I do hate the fact she allows the boys to get attached to these guys. And I don't understand her desire to prance the new guy infront of me. She texted me making sure I was going to the baseball game. She actually talked to me during the game, something she usually avoids. She tried to get me to pick the boys up early on Wednesday so I would get there while he and her were still home.
I don't think she even knows she does it. She is so bitter toward me she probably has this unconcieous need to try to annoy me. She thinks she is actually over the divorce. Yet she doesn't even have my phone number saved in her phone. A number she needs to use to call the boys when it is my weekend. Even though the kids use her phone too.
The other day she asked me. "Did you get my text?" I said no. "She looked at her phone and figured out she sent it to the wrong number. If not saving my number to her phone doesn't scream issue I don't know what does. Yet when she needs to be taken to the hospital because of a kidney stone who did she call? If I mentioned it she would say I'm just spouting psychobabble.
Consistency... Good to know SOMETHINGS never change.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Heard, Thought, Glimpsed
"I have home work. I'm supposed to journal my thoughts and divide them into four categories; mad, glad, sad or scared." She says.
Those are the four basic categories our emotions are supposed to be filtered into. I think the more complex ones like jealousy and envy straddle more then one. It can help to identify which prime emotions is behind a given feeling.
"Like in Harry Potter," I tell Pandora. "The name picks the person, like the wand picks the wizard." This being my explanation for how people get there pseudo-names in a blog. It is my feeling that sometimes the name can then effect the person. It all depends on the person.
Hope dangles on a string,
like slow spinning redemption.
Winding in and winding out,
the shine of it has caught my eye. Vindicated, Dashboard Confessional
Last night I sat on the cold aluminum bleachers at Max's little league game. I heard a voice behind me and I thought of you. The unique rhythmic drawl, so like the one I know. I listened in on the conversation. She was a nineteen year old girl talking with her parents. An opinionated fledgling adult discussing topics and demanding to be treated both as their equal and their child.
I knew from the bits of conversation I heard that she had more in common with you then the voice. It was like I was witnessing a scene from your past. It made me smile. It made me wish I could share it with you.
Those are the four basic categories our emotions are supposed to be filtered into. I think the more complex ones like jealousy and envy straddle more then one. It can help to identify which prime emotions is behind a given feeling.
* * *
"Like in Harry Potter," I tell Pandora. "The name picks the person, like the wand picks the wizard." This being my explanation for how people get there pseudo-names in a blog. It is my feeling that sometimes the name can then effect the person. It all depends on the person.
Hope dangles on a string,
like slow spinning redemption.
Winding in and winding out,
the shine of it has caught my eye. Vindicated, Dashboard Confessional
Last night I sat on the cold aluminum bleachers at Max's little league game. I heard a voice behind me and I thought of you. The unique rhythmic drawl, so like the one I know. I listened in on the conversation. She was a nineteen year old girl talking with her parents. An opinionated fledgling adult discussing topics and demanding to be treated both as their equal and their child.
I knew from the bits of conversation I heard that she had more in common with you then the voice. It was like I was witnessing a scene from your past. It made me smile. It made me wish I could share it with you.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Treading Water
"So what happened to going to Royal Oak?" #1 asks, after I recount the mediocrity of my Sunday.
Her question implies more then she says. Things like; "why aren't you getting out more, you said you'd have a girlfriend by the end of the summer" and "you're wasting your time with this recent infatuation."
"I've been busy." I reply lamely and I rattle off time spent with my boys.
She's intently coloring in the free booklet the restaurant gave us to occupy her son. He is content with his new dinosaur book and is ignoring her encouraging requests to join her. I regard them while they play together, waiting for the food to arrive. His little mouth and chin are identical to hers. His pale skin a stark contrast to her deep rich tan.
She told me once during a fit of angry text that I would always be alone. Though she would say she didn't mean it now it's probably closer to the way she feels. Not that she thinks I deserve to be alone. No, she would probably say I want to be that way.
After dinner, I drive home alone. I think about Pandora, so far away, lost in her own world of pain. Sifting through her own set of emotions. She has given me something to look forward too. A day in the sun. A night beneath neon where nothing and everything can be real. I count down the days and wonder what life will be like when I return.
I can not shed a tear for the way life is right now and that is the way it is supposed to be. The murky water won't let me see beyond the surface. The muck churned up hides the bottom. Leaves me taking each step in trepidation. Feeling for sharp stones. Hoping to find lost treasures. Wondering where the drop off begins. Not knowing whether I should head for shore or swim to sea.
Something's getting in the way
Something's just about to break
I will try to find my place in the diary of Jane
As I burn another page
As I look the other way
I still try to find my place in the diary of Jane
So tell me how it should be.. Diary Of Jane, Breaking Benjamin
Her question implies more then she says. Things like; "why aren't you getting out more, you said you'd have a girlfriend by the end of the summer" and "you're wasting your time with this recent infatuation."
"I've been busy." I reply lamely and I rattle off time spent with my boys.
She's intently coloring in the free booklet the restaurant gave us to occupy her son. He is content with his new dinosaur book and is ignoring her encouraging requests to join her. I regard them while they play together, waiting for the food to arrive. His little mouth and chin are identical to hers. His pale skin a stark contrast to her deep rich tan.
She told me once during a fit of angry text that I would always be alone. Though she would say she didn't mean it now it's probably closer to the way she feels. Not that she thinks I deserve to be alone. No, she would probably say I want to be that way.
After dinner, I drive home alone. I think about Pandora, so far away, lost in her own world of pain. Sifting through her own set of emotions. She has given me something to look forward too. A day in the sun. A night beneath neon where nothing and everything can be real. I count down the days and wonder what life will be like when I return.
I can not shed a tear for the way life is right now and that is the way it is supposed to be. The murky water won't let me see beyond the surface. The muck churned up hides the bottom. Leaves me taking each step in trepidation. Feeling for sharp stones. Hoping to find lost treasures. Wondering where the drop off begins. Not knowing whether I should head for shore or swim to sea.
Something's getting in the way
Something's just about to break
I will try to find my place in the diary of Jane
As I burn another page
As I look the other way
I still try to find my place in the diary of Jane
So tell me how it should be.. Diary Of Jane, Breaking Benjamin
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