Discovery

On the radio the other weekend I heard this author talk . . . Michael Perry. It was a re-run and he was talking about his book that came out a few years ago. He was so funny and wonderful, I bought two.

In "Truck, A Love Story" very early in the book, he describes a woman and it struck me so that I needed to record it here:

"As a younger man, I would not have looked twice at Irma Harding. As a younger man, I was a fool. A man learns to tune his sensibilities. Consider the eyes. Your callow swain will be galvanized by coquetry and flash; your full-grown man is taken more by the nature of the gaze. A powerful woman's eyes are charged not by color but by intent. The strong woman does not look at you, the strong woman regards you. Irma's gaze is frank, with a crinkle of humor at the crease of each eye. She knows what she is looking for, and she knows what she is looking at. She has a plan, and should she encounter events for which she lacks a plan, she will change gears without fuss."

Granted, he's describing a drawing of a woman marketing International Harvester refrigerators . . .

But still.

Who is this Michael Perry?

Bell Jar

Whoo dang. I went into the bell jar last weekend. I could do nothing. Just lay around and stare. I couldn't even go to work on Monday. Just depressed and scared and lonely and self-loathing and horrible. It didn't really clear until Thursday. Today I woke up after 12 hours of sleep actually looking forward to what the day may hold.

Thank. Fucking. Heavens.

Depressed and lonely and scared is horrible. Luckily I'm old enough to realize these terrible places ebb and flow and there's no way through them but through them. Good I'm through it.

For now anyway.

I did notice it in my work mates this week. My Shaman actually snapped at me a bit and accused me of being a kind of woman I'm just not. Hurt my feelings. Pissed me off. But, he was obviously mired down in his own drama. My sister fell in a hole as well. Just big dread emotions everywhere.

May the stinking hot weekend burn it all away. May a weekend at the beach cleanse us all.

Here's to climbing out of the bell jar.

He Asked

ME:

Hey there, Billy.

I am going to go to ground tonight. Feeling overwhelmed and the need to lay around and talk to my sister on the phone.

Hope you have a wonderful weekend.
B

BILLY:

Okay. If you don't mind sharing, may I ask why you are feeling overwhelmed? "Bugger off" is, as always, an acceptable reply. :-)

ME:

I got a bit jangled and over-exposed last weekend. Kinda felt like I drank enough to be a complete dork all over everyone. Kind of embarrassed a little about that. Then this week I've had too much time with people -- not enough time to recharge and be alone and think things through and journal and just close the blinds and hide. Plus I'm having reoccurring dreams (every night this week) that are trying to tell me something that I'm not understanding just yet . . . and if I don't spend some time and meditate on them they are only going to get more disturbing. Not to mention the fact that I'm about to quit a job I love and start a potentially disastrous liquor store with all my friends' money. That's been weighing heavily on the mind. And it's fucking father's day, so I will need to have my folks over for dinner on Sunday -- which will stress me out a tad -- and now Elaine wants me to meet her new boyfriend and listen to jazz on Saturday and I need to stain my door frames and get the carpets cleaned and exercise and get thinner and save more money because I'm about to quit my job and start a potentially disastrous liquor store with all my friends' money and my business plan isn't done and how am I ever going to get it done if I don't have a cell phone?

See?

Kind of overwhelmed. Need to go to ground and meditate and journal and regroup.

Cube Conversation

Sweet Wonder.
Sunday Afternoon.
Touchdown Kitty.
Mayflower's Kitty.
Oohhh.
Inside there is a little prize, like a frog or a turtle.
Kitten with a Rose . . . $14.95
Kitten's Ornament
Kitten With Sweets
That's a music box.
When's her birthday?
That would be available 7 July.
Look at Laundry Day!
This one here is $65.00
Kitten's Teddy
Kitty's Taste for the Holidays
Kitty's Sweetheart
That one is adorable.
Ahhhh, it has a bunny in it.
Kitty New Year.
Kitty Fourth of July.
Here's a lazy afternoon.
That one's crystal.
Now here's one with a Disney print on it!

This is what I have been listening to for the last 15 minutes.

Cube land is strange.

Stockholm

I miss my torturers. Today, after 10 days, the bees are done. I tried. I tried to find a way to make them move along. I talked to every bee rescue service listed. I had friends call friends who called friends who hooked me up with Betsy the Beekeeper. I read the web sites. Vince from work went up and almost fell off the roof to try to help. I hoped beyond hope that they were moving away instead of in. I liberated all that could still fly who came into the living room. Every day for the last 10 days I had at least 15 bees come through. Day after day. Bee after bee. I disposed of the dead and liberated the living.

But in the end . . . in the end . . . today . . . I caved. I knew they couldn't stay. I didn't want to spend thousands of dollars ripping apart the bricks of the chimney to save them. I couldn't. I can't. I can't afford to. So, I chose the other option -- because I couldn't do it anymore . . . I couldn't keep moving them along. I couldn't keep picking up the dead. I couldn't keep emptying the candles and sweeping off the sills. I caved knowing that their honey may just seep and seep into the nether regions of my house and destroy it. I caved and I'm sorry I caved, but they wore me down. I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't live with my torturers anymore.

They are now entombed in the chimney.

I know. It's horrible.

The whole hive. All those bees. They are all in there, sealed in. Trapped now and dead. Subject to whatever a bar of Prozap Junior could do.

Those out working at the time are still coming down the chimney and flying around the top, wondering. I'm hoping by tomorrow they stop. I'll pretend they flew away and joined another hive, safe in a tree trunk or a box in someone's yard. But always, deep down, I'll know they just died. Died without their Queen.

Oh, man.

What kind of karma does this bring? I have entombed a village to death. I killed the honey bees.

I'm so sorry. I'm so damn sorry that you chose here and I couldn't do what it would take to suck you out and move you.

I'm just so sorry.

May you lie gracefully in your chimney tomb . . . Know that I am trying to recognize the honey of life and do the impossible. If I get a chance, I'll even have some sex in your honor.

May you all rest in peace.

My First Comments

I just received my first comments from a stranger. At least I think she's a stranger. Who is Cece? I know someone named Cece, but can't imagine she would ever have found this blog, or that someone who knows where this blog is would know the Cece I know and send her off to read it. So, I'm making the assumption that Cece is some random reader. Which just brings home that whole "I'm posting this stuff on the web and should realize that total random people can see it" thing. I knew it could happen in theory, but there had never been any evidence until now.

So, Hi, Cece. Thanks for commenting.

Cece was complementary and that was very nice. She posted comments to two of my little bloggy blogs that you can now read below. I just allowed them to be published because, hey, that's what the whole comments feature is about. We can only hope that Cece is a very powerful mover and shaker in that "make Beth famous" kind of way. Or at the very least she has millions of dollars she would love to invest in the Exit Strategy.

But, it seems Cece finds my use of the word fuck "gross and ignorant."

Which just proves the theory that Cece doesn't actually know me . . . because if she did she would know that I swear up a blue streak almost every time I open my mouth, and I'm not, actually, gross nor ignorant. I just happen to live in a culture that not only allows it, but encourages it. People who don't swear up a blue streak don't get taken seriously. Plus, fuck is just a great word to say. It's expressive and gets people's attention when you need it. It communicates severity and intensity. I love the word. I also love God damn motherfucker and cocksucker and even the dreaded "c" word. Cunt is great for getting construction workers to take you seriously. When you need to get a construction worker to take you seriously and to realize you can hold your own right there and then, try using the word cunt without stammering, dropping their gaze or blushing. They'll listen.

So, ok . . . fuck and cocksucker and, well, cunt, especially, aren't going to be words I use at every dinner party I attend, and if I ever get a chance to meet Cece, I will refrain from offending her (I promise, Dear. I'll respect you very much) . . . but like she said . . . this is my blog. I will probably continue to type like I would tell a story. Even my folks who still cringe every once in a while, have gotten use to the language. Just the other day, I was telling my father the story of lighting the fire to chase away the bees -- peppered as it was with my language -- and all it did was make him laugh and laugh.

So, to sum . . . Welcome Cece. I really do mean it when I thank you for commenting. It makes all of this seem kind of real. I hope you enjoy the rest of the posts and if you have a blog, let me know and I'll go read yours. As soon as I can figure out how to add a link . . . I'll direct you to some other ones I really like.