Wednesday, May 6, 2009


Really I just want to go to bed. Like an hour ago. But I had to finish the super freaky SVU with Swoosie Kurtz playing this nutzo judge. And reminding us all that there's no shame in growing old, because facelifts alter our countenance and make it impossible to properly enunciate. Lips should be able to come together. Just sayin'.

For weeks I've been thinking about you, Blog. Thinking about how I've neglected you. Sure, I crashed my bike. Sure, I've lived the last four weeks with at least one leg elevated. I've been busy. Work has been kicking my ass. Kicking. My ass. And when I get up to get going it lays me out again. And I get up. And boom, again. Seriously. It's been weeks since I've gone without a major fuckup. You know, I'm resilient, but this? Fuck. Fuck me, man. Fuck me? Fuck you!

And that's pretty much where I'm at now: Fuck you. I'm out of steam and have two more days to pull through. I'm behind STILL at work, and not working at this moment right now, as I should be. My body is... being mortal and shit. Fucking irritating. I know, I know, it's doing what it can. I should be nice to my body, since I treated it like shit for decades. My love life consists of an online, overly-chaperoned quiz application and excessive visual hunting ("damn, she's gorgeous, ring check... married. fuck.") Like I would actually speak to anyone.

Mother's day is coming up, and I don't want to harsh anyone's potential happiness on that day so I'll say this here and now: Dear Mom: You were supposed to help, not hurt. Fuck you.

Okay so I can check that off my list of things to do.

One year, when I was in junior high, or high school maybe, I bought the recently released in paperback "Mommie Dearest" for her for mother's day. I had no idea what the book was about. I was getting a gift because she said she'd take my birthday present back if I didn't get her something. Maybe reading the back of the book would've alerted me to the fact that this was not an appropriate, dutiful gift. I was stupidly bold and daring... without meaning to be. Her reaction? An astonishing muted retreat. What was she gonna do anyway, beat me? HA! Awesomeness.

Bold. Bold and brash. And stupid.

Not much has changed really. I get by on luck and love, and I have had plenty of both. I love and luck comes to me. And when I'm lucky, I get love. I'm extra bold and brash at this moment because I have been SUPREMELY energized and fortified by the word knitting of the best poet I know. To me, for me, beautiful delicacies of syllables images blessings, wrapped up in love. I am momentarily invincible. As a result I can say anything.

I consider the Blog, the open letter to anyone who'll read it. It's a shouting in the darkness, to be sure. One sits on this side, tippity-typing and never really knowing. It's a love letter, sometimes. Multidirectional. I consider much of my writing as a conversation with G-d, you know, giving the low-down, taking stock of what's what and where, and putting in a couple of requests for this or that. I don't ask for much or very often. When I do, it's often in writing.

I count the number of sentences that start with "I" and I wonder what Gramma would do to fix that. She always just left it off and started the sentence like normal. You would assume the "I" was there. Not sure it would work here. Thinking it'll sound a lot like Tweetering or status updating. No, no. I should put myself in the picture. After all, if I am not for myself, who will be?

No, yes, I will put myself in the picture. I will not hide and I will not be hidden. I won't hide myself from you, as I've done recently. My brain bubbles over with ideas and thoughts and then I arrive at work and can't capture it. It was in the deep winter that I tossed away any concern and spent hours at work not working but writing. I was wide open and pouring it out. That changes. And changes again. You may wonder how it is that I could ever hide, an elephant behind a birch. And of course, here, on the screen, in pixels first then letters, I am all brash and bold. Naked always. Exposed, but only in pieces.

I know. I know it's not about me but about the connections, person to person. We crave it and shun simultaneously. Welcome to the wire; balance well.

Now I am tired. Tired of wobbling back and forth, unable to maintain balance. Falling off of writing, falling into the brain-suck of TV. Falling off Facebook, unable to keep up. Dropping balls like rain. Some juggler I am. Weary, I am. But I just got this safe place to curl up in, sent to me in pixels and letters. Fortify, regenerate, rest, she said, safely. No harm will come to me here. Thumb pillow, here I come.


  1. Shel. Your writing is, as always, just amazing. So open, so heart-full, so honest. Suffused with incredible passion as well as heartache yet pinging divinely and resonating deeply with emotional truth.

    What I want to tell you is this: it's okay to drop off, to fail, to be tired, and to totally fuck everything up. Yup. Sure is. It means you're swimming in the sea of life instead of just sticking a toe in every now and then.


  2. I don't know what's going on with the universe, but lots of us folks are feeling this way right now. You have the guts and grace to write about it. Thank you. I can't tell you how many times in the last week I've said, I'm fucking up. For example, this is the second time I've tried to post this comment. So just know that you're not alone and that things will shift again. At least, that's the hope I'm holding on to.

    And thanks to Dr. Ding, that's exactly what I needed to hear today.

  3. Count me in...I'm dropping balls right and left in my court jester juggling act.

    And giving your evil mother "Mommy Dearest" for Mother's Day (intentional or not)? Absofuckinglutely priceless.