A Work In Progress...

October 28^th, Wednesday evening.

On my way home from work today as I sat in my car, I heard on the radio a song that I had not heard since I was a teenager. I distinctly remember buying the CD from a store in downtown Chicago while on a trip with my family. My father had given my thirty dollars to do whatever I wanted while we were on vacation; walking the busy streets with my mother and father behind I saw a store with posters covering all the windows and in every poster was a face of someone who wanted my attention. Every face was different some had men with make-up under their eyes, others with beards and long hair. One had a woman sitting at a piano with her eyes closed who seemed at once both defiant and at peace. Another was a group of five men, one sitting at the drums with his arms raised while the others standing behind their instruments and lights were marking the stage as they played. Another was a single man playing the saxophone wearing a suit and tie. Another was a man standing in a corner holding his guitar with a microphone coming out of the top while the man looks down and away. The one that I could not help staring at was of an angry man with his acoustic guitar slung to the left as he flipped off the camera. The recklessness and brashness of it intrigued me. That this was someone famous, someone who people wanted to listen to was almost too much for me to comprehend. I knew that what he was doing was something that I was not supposed to do and when I realized that my parents were close behind I quickly looked away and told my parents that I wanted to go in here. I left there with one CD a blue album with a song called Buddy Holly. That record began a shift in me, or perhaps more accurately was indicative of something already happening that I was just beginning to become aware of. This was the first time that I did something outside of what was expected of me; that I took a step towards becoming independent.

Hearing that song reminded me of those feelings. That song, while it is nothing special in itself, is special to me because it marks for me the time when I began to choose and not let someone else choose for me.

Today at work Mr. Downs checked in on me to see how things were going. While this is expected of him to do every year, I still feel a since of eagerness for it to be over. He told me that everything was fine and to keep up the good work. I was glad once it was over. He said that I would get a copy of his form in a couple of days and that I need to return it to him signed. I have not had any shortages in my drawer in over six months and have set up six new loans this year. I know that I have nothing to worry about, but all the same I will be glad to see his report.

A Work In Progress...

October 27th, Tuesday

After a long day my dad liked to listen to music and drink jack and sprite. Tom Waits was one of his favorites after a particularly hard week. When he thought we were doing something else he would hold his glass and sing along quietly. I remember after every sip his lower lip would suck the whiskey that his mustache held on to. He would lift his glass with one hand and act like he was directing the band with the other. Whenever I could I would watch him and wonder. My dad would never let me see him like this and my Mom would call me back to the other room if she ever caught me watching. My parents were good people; my Dad was my hero growing up. I would always tell people this because even as a kid I sought people’s approval and that always impressed people. I knew that was a good answer when people asked me by their response. Ever since I was little I have been pretty good at reading people and having a good idea at what they want to hear. Call it a gift if you want.

I like to drink whiskey; I am pretty sure that I am not an alcoholic but I do like to drink alone. I have never gotten drunk and I think to be an alcoholic you would have to have been drunk at least onece; but I lie about how much and when I drink.

“Everything is going to change when you have a baby. Your life will never be the same. You have no idea how hard it will be. Get ready to not sleep. Your life will be pretty crazy for now on, that is just part of being a parent. I am so excited for you.” All of these have been said to me in the last few months from people with big smiles on their faces. People have a funny way of expressing their joy about us having a baby. When I hear people say this sort of thing, I tend to smile and nod/laugh while inside I am thinking, “What are you trying to tell me?”

This is a project that I had to do in my Shakespeare class; I was trying to write from the perspective of Ophelia from Hamlet after she had died and the play was over. I’m not sure how I feel about this piece, but it has been too long since I have posted anything and my ego insists.

"How can the sun reject the moon?
How can the rose blossom without sunlight?
What will the ocean reflect without the sun?
What will happen when the moon can take this rejection no longer?

The heart is the most frail of all things
The mind is the most broken of all things
The liver is the most dangerous of all things
…

“'No! No! That won’t do…damn muse, damn muse. Can you not conjure up words for me? Can you not communicate with the dead? Damn. How will he ever know, how will he ever feel what he did? How will my words ever have their voice if inspiration will not give breath? This truly is a tragedy, that such a man as him could not see what was right before him. To be so focused that you can not see the leaf on a tree, is to be blind.
What is that you say? “A violet in the youth of primy nature, forward not permanent, sweet not lasting, the perfume and suppliance of a minute, no more.” But you left, you were not there to walk through this, you went away to study and left your sister at home without a mother and without the care of a father. You tried to warn me that “his will is not his own, for he himself is subject to his birth.” You warned me don’t listen to his songs, do not open you heart to him, but what you didn’t know was that we were past that. I loved him already, and I know that he loved me. Well good for you Laertes, good for you and I will never talk to you again. For like a fool you went to Claudius to kill him, but that oh so clever usurping king tricked you and used you like a master uses a puppet. Where then was all your schooling? Where then was your wisdom and fine learning? Damned fool.
You too father, I still hear you and your words. They still ring falsely in my ears like rusted broken bells in the tower. You dismissed me too quickly “like a green girl unsifted in such perilous circumstance.” But who was the fool? Who was the one that thought that he could get between a mother and her son? Did you really think that Lady Gertrude would side with you over her own son? Stuck like a pig, you should count yourself lucky. You were put to rest just like your beloved Caesar; twice a fool was killed by a brute man.
And you, you whose name I can not even in death utter. You who drove me to… How could you ever question if I was honest, if I was fair? Why would you deny that you ever loved me? I am no fool, I know what was in your heart when you would send me to a nunnery. I know that you would not have me and that you would not let anyone else have me. To curse any future matrimony I may engage in with calumny; to insist that I should never marry but instead waste away in a nunnery. Who is the larger villain? The usurping king who killed his brother to take his wife and kingdom, or the man who never even gives the chance of happiness? Your father may have had his life taken too soon, but he did have years with your mother and was able to see his son grow. You have taken from me any chance for love of husband or love of child.
What is worst of all, you have left me still wanting. You have left me, and I am still wanting your attention, still wanting your affection; I still can feel you against my breast, I still feel your love for me in my heart.”

Oh love recoiled, surly you are the most potent of all poisons
You who give all joy only to take all hope from the heart
You who turns the sun dark and steals the warmth of spring

How much longer will you haunt my steps?
How much longer will you plague my waking thoughts?
Plague my lonely dreams?

My heat still cries out for the only love it knew,

My brother left me during my trials to pursue his own interests.
My mother died when I was a babe, never offering me her breast.
My father never laid his eyes on me, but used me to serve his interests.

One man, one friend, one confidante was given to me,
This one was taken from me, and I was left to my madness,

All alone.'"

I once had a dog named Rutt
That had a problem with his butt
If he was barking, he shurley was farting
Their never was a louder mutt

There was a woman who had no knees
If their was stairs she always asked please
Help me up them, I haven’t the gumption
To climb the closest clump of trees

There once was a man named Byron
That was finally caught lyin’
He took his wife, who caught him twice
And sent her back to Ireland

There once was a cat named Sandy
Who thought everything was dandy
Until she met a dog, who was quite the hog
And ate the poor cat as candy

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who always carried a red bucket
It carried his cat, that had a black back
The best friend for a man with a bucket

There once was a young math major
She was a walking calculator
She told math jokes, to all sorts of folks
She was a sassy math major

I once had a girl who was my sweetie
Our fights always ended with a treaty
Whenever we would fight, She would hit with all her might
I never had a stronger sweetie

Bottles and Cans

Bottles and cans
Bottles and cans
Got -- bottles and cans

Kick me kiss me
Kick me kiss me
Can you -- keep real close

Cats can’t kill me
Cats can’t kill me
They will -- bite and scratch

Failed Attempts At Consolation

The consolers clatter on
While mourners hang their heads
The sun just up and blood convoys slow
No one really cares and no one really hears

The preacher speaks
With words meant to inspire, to lift souls higher
The pews are full of folks who hurt
But aren’t being healed, just instructed

The line grows long like cancer
With hands to shake and lines to recite
While brother and sisters are forced to console
And their mother Rests behind them

The weary sun has almost collapsed
Night is waiting to be born
The day is too long and heavy
And forced to crawl through

And the worm keeps on
Consuming flesh created in His image
Carving caves to lay their eggs
Only to die a few feet away