Wednesday, 27 April 2011

My Tornado story....

We were stupid Monday night – just plain stupid. There’s no other way to call it.  There were storms everywhere and we “poo-pooed” the idea that anything bad could happen.
We arrived in Conway just minutes before things got really crazy. Suddenly, the sirens were going off and all the traffic seemed to have disappeared from the roads. We parked the car and ran into the local Wal-Mart to find everyone in the center of the store; silent and waiting.
I suppose we only waited two or three minutes. It seems the whole “tornado warning” thingie was going on while we were on the road. At any rate, after a couple of minutes the store manager came on the intercom and allowed the crowd to disperse and continue shopping.
I’m sure someone is going to be offended here; I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve gotta say it. It's part of the story. If it makes you feel any better, I slightly offended myself.
As the crowd started to spread out, and we tried to make our way to the other side, I realized that Mexico was right in the middle of the Wal-Mart store.  I honestly think we were the only white family in the store.
Scratch that. Jack and I were the only completely Caucasian customers in the store (Don is a beautiful blend of Portuguese and Native American).
If you read this blog often, you also know that I was pretty close to a panic attack at this time. I hate crowds. I hate Wal-mart. I wanted to be safe in my little cocoon where no strange people could brush against me as they passed, where I didn’t have to return friendly smiles and say excuse me, and where I didn’t have to wonder why Mexico was in the middle of Wal-mart.
I was so stressed that I verbally vomited out the words, “Why the hell are we passing through Mexico to get to the other side of the store? Is Wal-mart where the Hispanic community gathers for tornadoes? Does this make me Hispanic now because I’m here for the tornado too?”
“Good Lord. That’s just wrong,” says Don.
“Well, don’t you find it strange?”
At this point he ignored me and we kept walking.  But, he also put himself between me and the crowd. With the kids behind me and Don in front of me, I felt like I had my cocoon back and I made it to the other side without incident.
When we made it out of the store things were starting to get bad again so, we decided to go across the street and wait it out at a local restaurant and have dinner. We were there an hour, watching the TV stations cover the weather, thinking maybe there’d be a break soon and we could leave.  Finally, we decided to make a break for it. It was only ten miles. We thought we could get there before the next round. We almost did.
Just as we reached our exit the weather guy on the radio announced a “Tornado Emergency” for our exact location. We were hearing things like “take cover”, “debris markers” and “rotation”. Suddenly, we couldn’t see to drive any further. My truck began to bounce; not shake, not rock, but straight up and down bounce. There were bunches of leaves, branches and other debris I couldn’t really identify hitting the side of my truck. There was a solid sheet of wind and rain blocking our path. We could pull over, but we couldn’t get out of the truck. It was loud. I don’t even think I have the words to describe the sounds we were hearing.
That was the longest thirty seconds of my life with J in the back seat crying, “Am I gonna die?”
We did finally make it home physically unharmed. We had no power, but we were safe.
Folks, I’m convinced that “debris cloud” is exactly what turned into a tornado and destroyed Vilonia. Vilonia is a straight line northeast of where we were. Saltillo and Black Oak are right behind where I live.
I’ve looked at the pictures today of my hometown and, while thankful that all my Vilonia friends and family are safe, I am just devastated at what I’ve seen. I feel like the world has gone crazy and I hate that I have to be at work rather than helping with clean up.
I hope they all know they are in my thoughts and prayers.
I’m going to head home and hug my kids.

Friday, 22 April 2011

Yeah, two in one day. It's Dafeena's fault. :)

So, my awesome friend Dafeena has tagged me with this bloggie thing. I don’t recall what the original rules are, except that I think I’m supposed to “tag” seven different bloggers in this post. Really, this is an awesome way for us bloggers to help promote each other. Because Dafeena has “tagged” me twice, and therefore provided me with new stalkers, and because I just love her to death, I’m going to comply.

For those of you who have already been infected with this blog tag, I understand completely if you don’t wish to complete the task again.

So, first, the blogs I read most often:

  1. Dafeena --  Honestly, one of the most unique people I’ve encountered in a while. I enjoy watching her grow on her journey of self discovery.
  2. Goddess In the Machine – First, if you’re easily offended you might just want to keep off the grass at her place. But, she’s so real and has an awesome way with words.  Honestly though, she wouldn't really give a flip if you were offended.
  3. Hyperbole and a Half – she doesn’t post often but, when she does it’s a riot. I love her illustrations.
  4. Tom @ Straight From The Padded Cell – this guy is too funny. His anecdotes, inspired by true events, are fantastic. I always leave his place laughing.
  5. Aimee @ Pleasantly Demented (another amazingly talented writer who can cuss you out but make you think it's a compliment)  -- these are Dafeena’s words. I just couldn’t have said it better so I left it alone.
  6. Inside the Bipolar Mind – This isn’t your run of the mill blog. These are the writings of a woman who struggles with bipolar disorder. She leaves you feeling what she’s written. A beautiful person who’s doing her journey the hard way and not complaining.
  7. I just don’t know on this one. Sorry. I’m not comfortable promoting one I don’t actually follow on a regular basis. If I decide on one later, I’ll add it.

Now for the second part of the rules I am suppose to tell you 7 things about me. But, Dafeena changed the rules based on a writing meme she found and I’m going with her plan here.

A. Age: 30s
B. Bed size:
Full. But, if I don’t have a king soon I may kill my husband.
C. Chore you dislike: Gonna go with “dislike the most” here. Washing dishes.
D. Dogs: I have a maltese mix. She rules my world.
E. Essential start to your day:
F. Favorite color: depends on what day it is.
G. Gold or silver: white gold
H. Height: 5’7.
I. Instruments you play(ED): None
J. Job title: one day, I hope it’s “writer”
K. Kids: 2 biological sons and 2 step sons
L. Live: Arkansas USA
M. Mom’s name: uh….mom?
N. Nicknames: my dad still calls me Pooh Bear
O. Overnight hospital stays: neither of us has the time for me to list all of these
P. Pet peeves: people in general
Q. Quote from a movie: “I’m sorry, all I heard was ‘Blah, blah blah, I’m a dirty tramp’" – Mr. Deeds
R. Righty or Lefty: Righty tighty
S. Siblings: Just my brother
T. Time you wake up: uh, which time? 11 pm? 2 am? 4 am? 5 am? After coffee?
U. Underwear: No, I’m a girl. I wear panties.
V. Vegetables you don’t like: I eat them all.
W. What makes you run late: on my own I never run late. Otherwise, it’s waiting for Don to fix his hair.
X. X-rays you’ve had:I have an x-ray every 3 months.
Y. Yummy food you make: Pfft….everything. I’m the Queen of Awesome in the kitchen.
Z. Zoo Animal Favorites: Monkeys

Wanted: Troll Bridge with reasonable living space beneath....

I’m not much of a communicator. Perhaps you’re thinking, “What? How can you spend so much time blabbing away at this blog and not be a communicator?”

It’s simple, really.  This here blog – Well, it’s not human interaction.

I’m funny. I’m smart. I can be fun to be around. But, with the exception of very few people I remain close to, I cannot find the energy to maintain relationships.

I do not call or email anyone – unless I have something specific to share. Then, it’s brief and to the point.

I wish I could adequately explain how much I LOATHE  the telephone.

Interaction with other humans requires a certain level of vulnerability and a great deal of stress for me. It means I have to be entertaining. It means emotional exposure.  It means I’m not allowed to be tired. It means hiding the physical pain that I deal with on a daily basis.

When someone asks me how I’m doing I begin to have really bizarre conversations with myself.

Should I tell them how I’m doing?
No, probably not.
Well, which response should I give? Should I say fine? Just freakin’ peachy? It’s another day? I’m tired? Should I go with the unconvincing, I’m great? C’mon, help me out here.
Well, just pick one. If you stand here much longer without answering, you’re gonna look like a complete dork.
But, it has to be believable. What do you think they’ll believe?
I don’t know. But, don’t tell them the truth. They’ll just think you’re a complainer.
But, I feel like crap.
Me too, but time’s up. Answer.

*sigh* “Umm, I’m ok, I guess.”

It really frustrates me that people don’t understand how difficult social interaction is for me. They think I’m being rude or that I’m angry with them. It’s neither of those things. Really, it just plain makes me uncomfortable.

I cringe when someone steps onto an elevator with me. I can be at work an entire day and someone will approach me with, “Oh, I didn’t even know you were here today.”

I have a small handful of people in my life who are considered safe. You know why they’re safe? Well, because I can spend long stretches of time with them without speaking and it’s ok.  I surround myself with people who don’t need to be entertained.

Did you know my husband and I have been known to go nearly a full day without saying two words to each other? This isn’t because we’re angry, or not speaking; it’s because we’re perfectly comfortable with the other one having nothing to say.

I think this is one trait of mine that drives my family nuts. But honestly, I don’t know how to get around it without supplying copious amounts of alcohol or maybe taking a tranquilizer first.

So, in the meantime, I’m taking my trollish self back under the bridge until next week when I’m ready to poke my head out again.

Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Chicken Heads, Birthaversaries, D loves my gumbo and writer's block...

There’s nothing in the world that infuriates me more than to see able bodied adults with children who are unemployed and living off of my tax dollars; tax dollars that will not be available to support me when I retire after working for 30 years – tax dollars that I gladly paid because I knew that one day I’d basically get them back in the form of Medicare and Social Security.
There they are, those lazy and selfish folks, all excited about the first of the month with their food stamps and welfare checks, punching in their status updates on facebook by using their iPhone. But their grubby little kids are doing without and wearing hand me down clothes. I’m so mad I could spit nails.
I could, if I wanted to, sit at home and draw a check every month based on the status of my health. But, I don’t. I want more than what a disability check would afford me every month. I want my children to have more than what a disability check would afford them every month.
Does anyone remember that song “Chicken Head” or, what’s that other one? Oh…”First of the Month”… Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m thinking here….
*deep breath* moving on…
Don and I completely enjoyed our anniversary/his birthday. Yeah, same huh?
 You know what we did? Pretty much, we did a whole lot of nothing. We were tired Friday night so we stopped at a Walgreens and bought a deck of cards. Then, we went back to the house where we were staying and sat in the middle of the bed playing rummy.
For the record, he completely sucks at rummy. Even when he went out, I won.  Just sayin’….
Around midnight we decided we’d go out to have a cigarette. I was only wearing a t-shirt, so I wrapped a small throw around my waist and out to the front porch we went. No problem right?
Wrong! Someone managed to lock the front door!
In the middle of the night, in Hot Springs, I am sitting on a front porch in a strange neighborhood across from Oaklawn, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a throw that barely managed to cover my wide load. The keys were in the house and the truck was locked. All communication devices were in the house. I looked at my husband and contemplated tossing the throw and tackling him in the yard for locking us out; But it was cold, as in the wind chill was closer to 35, and I wasn’t about to come out from under that blanket. Besides, his skinny butt can outrun my not skinny butt.
Instead, while he went around the house looking for a window that wasn’t painted shut, I sat on the porch and waited. Well, most of the time I sat there and waited. When a car came down the street I’d wrap that throw around tight and run to hide behind a bush at the corner of the house. I was also contemplating whether or not to go across the street and ask Shirley Q. Liquor if I could use her phone to have someone come get me.
Finally, I hear a thud, immediately followed by a couple of softer thumps from inside the house.  Which later, I would find out that Don apparently didn’t know the bed in front of the window in the back bedroom was only a slightly blown up air mattress.  There was no cushion for his bony behind to land on when he propelled himself four feet off the ground and into an open window.
I’d have paid to watch that…
I completely enjoyed spending time with my oldest boy last night. It was even better when he called me out to the porch alone so we could talk about some more important things going on in his life. I’ve missed that part of our relationship. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it.
I’ll have to lure him over with my homemade gumbo more often.
Hmmm…what else…
For weeks now I’ve been staring at the cursor flashing on my Tressie story and haven’t been able to write a single line. I have the beginning and I have the end; I just can’t seem to pull the middle together. I’m at a loss and I’m beginning to get frustrated. I don’t have the patience to sit around and wait for the proverbial light bulb to go on. I have notes, and notes, and even more notes and I can’t manage to mold them into something that makes sense.
Anyone want pages of notes and a word document to finish writing a story?

Monday, 18 April 2011

An unsubmitted writing prompt I found

This is an old one that I never posted. It was done as part of a writing prompt and I just couldn't get it down to the 600 word limit. As I was editing it the power went out and I lost most of the changes I had made. You're just getting it as I found it, without the edits, so you may wind up feeling (as I do) that it's kind of left hanging or incomplete.... sorry....

We were just kids cruising along in that 1970 something Dodge Aspen Coupe, Sarah and me with our legs sticking to the vinyl seats and belting out the chorus to The Joker.
I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker…
That car was Army green and never since have I seen an uglier car.
Yeah, I take that back. I forgot about that 1989 Toyota Tercel I had. It had more rust spots than paint, one windshield wiper on the driver’s side and a Bacardi 101 box covering the hole where the glass had been busted out of the back window.
 If you guessed that we called that ugly green Aspen “The Tank”, you’d be right. The windows were down trying to compensate for the lack of A/C, hair blowing this way and that and laughing at some joke only known to us.
I’m a picker, I’m a grinner, I’m a lover and I’m a sinner….
You’ve not experienced summer until you’ve experienced it in the south. Arkansas weather is fickle with its hundred degree days with 100% humidity. The air is thick and sticky in August. It clings to your skin leaving you feeling like just maybe you could peel the layers off if you could just get the beads of sweat, tickling as they roll down your scalp and between your breasts, to dry.
It’s the only place I know where you pray it don’t rain in August because it will only make it hotter and more sticky and clingy than you thought humanly possible.
That kind of heat is what inspires us country folks to say things like, “Oooh Lawd, I am sweatin’ like a whore in church.”
Sarah, she was younger than me but she’d already done everything I hadn’t. I was the good girl – the girl who never got into trouble, the virgin and the girl who’d never drank anything stronger than red kool-aid with a little extra sugar. And Sarah, bless her soul, was showing me everything I’d been missing while held fast under the protective wing of my mother and the local First Baptist Church.
Her aunt trusted us with that car. I wonder if she’d had any idea how many times Sarah and I were cruising the back roads in that car, doing things we shouldn’t have been doing, if she would have granted us the freedom of using her car. “Road Trippin”, that’s Friday night fun for poor kids in the small town south. We’d spend four dollars for five gallons of gas and a buck seventy five for a pack of Marlboro Reds.  
I really love your peaches wanna shake your tree….
We’d been to the mall that night. That was my first adventure ever driving outside our quiet little town. We thought we were something else riding around in that ridiculous car and chain smoking those Marlboro’s like we thought folks would forget how cool we were if we stopped to take in a little oxygen between puffs.
We’d asked a random stranger exiting the mall how to get to another mall across town. Perhaps, not being familiar with navigating outside our town, we should have written those directions down. Perhaps we shouldn’t have driven to the outskirts of the first mall’s parking lot to smoke that left handed cigarette before we got on the interstate. Perhaps then, we would have exited to the right on I-630 and not to the left on I-440. Perhaps then, we wouldn’t have driven 30 miles in the wrong direction before realizing we were nowhere near our destination, but instead we were almost Pine Bluff – crime capital and gang capitol of Arkansas.
Yeah, you city folks laughing that Arkansas has a gang capitol need to do some research. For years, Pine Bluff was on the top ten most crime ridden and gang ridden cities in the country. Country folk got a whole different take on being a bad ass. We ain’t afraid to get dirty unlike ya’ll with your shiny shoes and manicured nails.
Ah lovie dovie, lovie dovie, lovie dovie all the time. Oh wee baby I sure show you a good time…
We stopped at some convenience store to get directions.
“Where the hell are we and how the f*** do we get home?” I asked that clerk. Yeah, I thought that addressing an adult with language made me cool too – even cooler than not bothering to leave my lit Marlboro in the car before going in to get directions.
Needless to say, we didn’t make curfew that night. We rolled into the driveway 30 minutes late. Karen didn’t say a word to us. I just laid the keys on the counter and hoped she wouldn’t expect me to raise my head and let her see my bloodshot eyes.
I think though, that was the night she finally figured out we were generally up to no good. We were never allowed to take the car out again.
Shortly after that I met D’s dad and Sarah and I grew apart. Sometimes, I still wonder about her. Did her life turn out ok? Is she happy?
As for what happened next with D’s dad…well, that’s another story and I’ll have to think of what parts of that one need tellin’. I’ll get back to you on it.

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Happy Anniversary...

Last night I felt like annoying Don. I really put a lot of thought into it and decided that the best way to annoy him was to do one of those obnoxious needy girl routines.
“Why do you love me?”
“Because you’re awesome.”
“Yeah, but what makes me awesome?”
“You’re the frame to my picture,” he said.
“Really, that’s the best you can come up with?”
“You’re the string that holds my picture on the wall. The nail that holds the string that holds the picture on the wall.”
I sighed.
“You’re the drywall that holds the nail that holds the string that holds the picture on the wall.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard and you’re totally missing the point.”
He laughed. “What I’m saying is that you’re my everything.”
“Whatever,” I said.
Then he laughed at me some more. Then he proceeded to really tell me why I’m awesome – and he was never annoyed. In fact, he completely made my day. After a year he still makes me melt like a popsicle on the 4th of July.
We’re celebrating our anniversary this weekend. We will be returning to the city where we married. This time though, we will not be staying at the pricey bed and breakfast where we honeymooned. The economy just doesn’t afford such luxuries at the moment. But, just the same, I’m looking forward to spending some time with him in a city I love to visit. For 24 hours I will have my husband all to myself, and I’m thrilled.
Here are some photos from our wedding weekend. Just in case you're interested. But you're probably not. But I don't care. I'm showing you anyway. Because it's my blog and I can do what I want. And because I'm feeling all romantic and mushy on my one year anniversary. *sticks out tongue for emphasis*

And, finally, I'm going to make you listen to "our song". I'll warn's kinda cheesy....

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Punky, Monkey, Dad and Don....

On D…
I had an excellent conversation with my 19 year old yesterday. (Nineteen, how the heck did that happen?)
Every now and then, after months of watching the immaturity of his young adult behaviors and thinking that he’s never going to grow up, he will say something that totally surprises and encourages me. Such as it was yesterday, when we were having a conversation about self-esteem, and people who work so hard to impress others that they ultimately wind up alienating themselves, when he made the following comment to me:
“Dude! If you don't feel good about you without worrying about how other people feel about you -- then there's something wrong with you. Be your own star player. Most star players don't worry about the rest of the team; they only worry about their own statistics.
*insert my raised eyebrow/confused look here à ____
Who is that boy, and what has he done with the real D?
Have I mentioned lately how much it annoys me when he calls me “Dude”. Is there anything about me that suggests masculinity?
He’ll be back in town this morning. I haven’t seen him since November. I’ve missed his face and am anxious for a big bear hug from my “Punky”.
On my dad….
I got to talk to him for a bit last night. I hate being so far from the old guy and I’m anxious for the day when he’s finally ready to move this way. In the meantime, I worry about him living in the middle of nowhere with only his dog to talk to.
Why don’t I go where he is, you say? There are several reasons; the biggest being that there are no jobs where he lives. I’ve got kiddos, those kiddos eat a lot, which means this momma has to work to feed them. You have to farm to make any money around there, and my farming adventures stop at milking goats for the neighbors and gathering the eggs when they’re out of town.
Besides, it wouldn’t be smart for me to leave the job I have now. As far as retirement goes, it’s one of the best places in the state to retire from. I’m almost 40. It’s time I should be thinking about such things.
He knows and understands this, and his plan is to eventually move this way. But, he’s got property to sell in a crappy economy, and affairs to get in order before he can make a move.
While you’re here, wave at the old guy. He’s reading the blog now. Hi Dad!
On my husband…
One year. We’ve been married one year. I’m really trying to digest that little factoid. It’s one of those things where it’s hard to believe it’s been a year, yet it seems as though it’s always been this way.
Even better? I still like him and he still likes me. We’re still tickled to death that we’re married. You can’t beat that with a stick.
Funny things I’ve heard this week?
Someone told me I was “like pudding, wrapped in sandpaper”. Guess they were saying, that while I may be a little rough on the outside, I’m soft and sweet on the inside. I might have to take that and run with it.
On J…
Well, I’ve had another doc say the kid needed to be evaluated for Aspergers. How do I feel about this? The same way I felt when I blogged on it a couple of months ago; I don’t care what label you attach to him. Aspergers? So what. Bring it on…He’s still the coolest kid I’ve ever met, the easiest kid I’ve ever dealt with and an absolute joy to be around. Attach whatever label you like. He’s still J. He’s still my little “Monkey”.
Yeah, I totally call my boys Punky and Monkey. Get over it. My dad still calls me Pooh Bear or Erikita too.
Sometimes I wish my grandpa still called me Snicklefritz.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

Why I Don't Sleep at Night...

Disclaimer: I swear on the life of my dead Aunt Mable, who I'm not sure ever really existed, that all artwork was done by a three year old.
(I'm sure that had I ever had an Aunt Mable she would buy me a new camera to prevent atrocities such as you are about to view here.)

I need a king sized bed. My husband’s life may depend on it.
I’m a curvy gal. My butt is too big.

My husband is 6’2”. He is all arms and legs.
I don’t like to be touched when I’m sleeping; especially when my husband’s skin temperature seems to elevate to nearly 200 degrees immediately upon contact with the bed.
He lays on his stomach, bending the knee of the leg on the outer edge of the bed in a way that makes his butt stick out into my side of the bed.
The inner arm is bent in a way that manages to place his elbow right in the small of my back.
Like this:

Notice he’s sleeping and I’m not? That’s because I’m thinking about dousing him with ice water…
Or putting my ice cold toes in the small of his back and pushing him off the bed….
And then I’ll have a hot flash.  I’m sweating like a whore in church and he’s touching me. I want to tear off my t-shirt and lie naked on the cold kitchen floor.  But, what if one of the children wakes up and sees the crazy naked mom on the kitchen floor? How do I explain that?
Poor kid….
Instead, I get out of bed, go to the bathroom, and run cold water on a washcloth. Then, I wipe myself down until I cool off.
I look at him from my post at the bathroom door. The jerk is still sleeping. This is the only time I ever think he’s a jerk; when he’s sleeping and I’m not.
I grab a clean t-shirt, change and decide to try again. As I climb into bed he changes position. Hallelujah! He’s now curled on his side of the bed and will not be touching me!
I’m happy! See?

I get comfy. I close my eyes. Alas, sweet slumber is near!
He starts snoring.
Now I need a king sized bed and ear plugs.

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

You can't have my pride -- Red Writing Hood Prompt

Someone has stolen something from you (or your character). Something of tremendous value. What will you do to get it back? Or will you give up?

Write a post - fiction or non - and tell us about it. Word limit is 600.

It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. Again I allowed him to tear from me my hopes and dreams – to steal my heart and trample on it while I watched.
This time would be different. This time I had something he couldn’t take from me. I had pride, confidence and strength. This time, unlike the first, I knew how to defend myself. I had taken every lesson from the first time and built it into something employable, and something deadly.
I knew how to be angry.
I knew how to take my pride back.
Patient and quiet I watched from my corner like a lioness evaluating her prey, the slight hint of a smile at the corners of my mouth.
He had just come back from my mother’s where he had to explain to our son why he was such a loser. He eyed me nervously as to and fro he walked, gathering his things and taking them to his truck. Through the thin curl of smoke at the end of my Marlboro I watched and planned my move.
One box left, it’s time. I put out my cigarette, turned the lock on the bedroom door, and stood poised, door still open, until I heard him making his way back down the hall.
Let him think I’m leaving the room. Let him feel like he’s going to get out without a scene. You deserve this moment. HE deserves this moment.  He lies. He cheats. He steals. You’re about to take it back, girl.
Don’t take your eyes off of him. Make the first one count. He’s almost here. You can do this. You NEED to do this.
He’s in…
Back still to him, I shut the door.
‘Now what’, he said, with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.
Now what? Thanks, you cretin, for fueling my ire only seconds before I smash your face.
‘Now what?’ I ask, as I make my way to stand in front of him. ‘Now what, is that I have just one more thing for you before you go.’
Did you see that? He just rolled his eyes. Get close girl. You’ve only got one shot at this -- make it count. The bastard is bigger and stronger.
Tightly clenching my fist, I turn as if to walk away. Then, with all the strength of my body I swing. Fist still closed I backhand him right in the mouth and watch him fall backwards into the corner of the bookshelf.
‘That was for me!’ I shout as I poise for the next blow. I paused for him to regain his footing. I was going to fight fair.
Wham! Another shot to the face.
‘That was for my children!’
‘That was for Faith and Amie!’
‘That’s enough,’ he said, grabbing my arms.
‘You deserve that and more,’ I sneered.
He let go.
A mistake, thinking I was done.
He grabbed my arms. ‘I said enough.’
Relax. Wait.
He let go.
The moron is a slow learner.
 ‘Damn you!’ I screamed.
I hit him until I couldn’t anymore, dodging his attempts to grab my arms.
His fists were balled at his sides. He was prepared to hit me back. I dared him.
Wham! I hit him again.
I smiled, noting the blood on his lip and his now puffy eye.
‘Thanks,’ I smiled.
‘Yeah, I just had ten years of therapy in minutes, you’re still loser and you’re not getting out the door with my pride. So, thanks. And..uh…have the new girlfriend put some ice on that eye. Gonna be a good one.'

Monday, 4 April 2011

On knitting

I don't expect everyone to know this, but knitting has a sound. Perhaps, you're not even interested to know this. Imma tell ya anyways.

I've always found comfort in the familiar clicking and clacking associated with the craft. Additionally, I am soothed by the feel of knitting.

I have no idea if this is any good or not. I guess, it doesn't really matter if it's good or not. But, this is what I was thinking as I drifted off to sleep last night....

Knitting Has a Sound

Click click slide
I sit curled in my favorite corner
The familiar sounds of bamboo sticks rubbing and tapping together

Click click slide
Wood both rough and smooth
Points dulled from extended hours of use

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The feeling of the fiber
It brushes gently across my fingers and carries my worries away

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Eyeing carefully the patterns
Knowing each stitch in a way too intimate for words

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Breathe in and breathe out
Needle in, yarn over, needle out and yarn through

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Counting each movement with vigilance
1-2-3 your cares slide away with each completed stitch

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Fingers travelling with ease
Knowing well the texture which lies between them

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You reach the end
Feeling at once accomplished and full of regret

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Binding the row
Each bound stitch traps your worries within the garment

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Search the skeins
Close your eyes as you stroke each one

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Eyes still closed
You imagine the transformation from skein to garment

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A contented sigh
Locating the medium of your elation and knowing comfort awaits