You ar a low life as is your daughter and the rest of yer DB Family

I have spent over a decade and a half chasing this idiot that I do not even feel attracted to.  I feel desperate for a family.  It is a biological impulse.  And I am easily manipulated.  I am not from a criminal, inbred family; thus, I am vulnerable for this dirt bag.

Here is the deal:

If I were to date a vulnerble, but adorable 23-year-old boy now, a boy with fucking mommy issues while I was ignoring my son... I would be you.  If I moved in with him and then tried to pass my parenting responsibilities of on this poor boy while the boy was saying, I will be as nice as possible, but I find your son creepy and spoiled, well, I would be you.

If I did nothing for Ezra's teeth and told him he was a genious so he would feel confident about something (though a fantasy only) I would be you.

I am better than you.  Your daughter is a half wit, pseudo intellectual phony.  Yer mother is a fucking inbred nutcase.  Yer father is a neaderthal..  And yer creepy attraction to your hideous looking sister's, ugly aerolas and all is ridiculous.  You belong with yer ex stripper gf.  Sad for poor little Pagan that the stripper was the only woman who wanetd her around.

There is a certain amount of hatred that creeps into my heart when I recall how hard it was to bond with Ezra when he was a baby b/c of M's mentally unstable and narcissistic daughter.  Occassionally, I will feel empathy about her life.  But mostly: nope. Dear Pagan,  the one thing in my life that has made sense is to keep you the FUCK away from my son.  You are an ugly, creepy, borderline disordered wannabe.  Get this:  Your dad loves Ezra so much fucking more than you it is sad.  Nobody WANTS YOU AROUND AT ALL and they never, ever have.  My son thinks your creepy and weird.  If anything, he is afraid of you.  No one has stolen him from you, ugly twat.  I've protected him from you.

You are a buck-toothed ugly girl who ppl. feel bad for.  Nobody admires you.  And get this:  you are not smart.  At all.  You were too fat and ugly to attend high school, freakshow.  I was sad that you did not kill yourself.  I am hoping you still will.

If you think your "trailer park" daddy--the heroin addict--has time for your annoying FB tirades, you are more pathetic than ever.  You are fat, lazy, stupid, and nothing more than an unwanted, annoying pest.  Again, I am sad that you did not take your life while you were a fat, ugly teenager.

I wish I had more love in my heart surrounding her.  But I do not.

Goodbye January, you jerky drunk!

FEBRUARY 5, 2013

First: Happy Birthday to my buddy William Burroughs, you brilliant, gorgeous junky.  100 years ago you showed up and made things way more awesome. Thank you for helping “get” that wildly sad, scared, vulnerable mark inside.

This is how today feels:

Goodbye January, you jerky drunk.

The end of January, when you realize it is now February, it's like... It's like amazing.  It is like having a mean drunk living in your basement for so long and then having him leave.   Even though he is down there like everyday, you hardly see him, but you can hear his shitty classic rock music.  It makes  every last breath you breathe overly enormous.  You know it smells like piss and a cheap ciggies down there.  It smells the way everyyone understand that  everything old shag carpet that smell. When he leaves you it is like this:  you wake up morning earlier than normal -- because you feel weirdly happy that there were moments of your childhood that were golden, especially conflated with all the dark.  And then you strain to hear the his terrible music, to smell the loser type smells.  And then you get it right way: he is gone.  You worry for a minute:  How will he make it out there if he no longer lives in my shitfuck basement?  And then you realize, very much like snowshoeing under night lamps in the woods of your small town makes you recognize, you knew he was never there forever.  He rambled on and then you breathe.

Confession: When January is over, I am relieved. We are all relieved.  But every broken girl misses their broken down, drunk boyfriend if they knew how to fuck. 

I wrote the following on an index card.  It is bad writing becasue it is not me: I am straining to sound confident.  And this is not me.

Have you ever gone on a date with someone who was not downright ugly, but who was maybe too skinny, had a boyish face when you were looking for something more manly, and maybe the dudes jeans looking like they’d fit your 13 year old son?  I have.  Have you ever sat, just a little bit embarrassed in a small town coffee shop with this guy, like you were being nice by hanging out with the guy?  Did you find that though he was pleasant; he spoke in very general terms and you mistook this for a sort of dull personality?  Please let me have done that for you.

About two years ago I was on a break.  The love of my life had “done me wrong” and I was looking for one of those basic, nice guys; maybe you read about one or you saw on an afterschool special when you were latch key kid in New England when you were in middle school.  As I was dreaming about a nice guy (I was willing to give up not having to work, fun sex, good conversation, everything; I just wanted someone to really, really like me!) my nebbish little neighbor headed down the hill and knocked on my door. 

^^^ Dumb. Dumb realtionship, and ever dumber writing about said relationship,.  I am writing this sentence now in 2000 fucking 16.  I remember very little of what this moron even said to me, but I remember fucking him like it was last Tuesday.  And like every guy who ties sex and his ego together, he would grin in a mean creepy way if he read this.  But the dood does not even read, so whatever. 

Here is something that I wrote a few weeks ago:

2016--Hardly readable.  Whenever I try to make my life with M. sound magially real, it comes out forced and boring.  B/c it is forced and boring.  A sexless, loveless marriage is depressing to experience and snoringly boring to read about. 

We went to look at houses once.  Angry little cottages with sad, brown stained planks and tiny, mean-eyed windows.  Each and every yard looked torched as though love had never been idea, not even in the beginning.  What happened, I wondered.  You asked, Why?  The realtor told us, “These poor people; they lost their lake.”  We went through some houses with our eyes forward as if not wanting to rubber neck at an awesome, fiery wreck. If we shuddered to think this about this town, these people, their houses, then why is it that there was one slanted ceiling in one little room that made me think, “Now, how darling?” It was in this room, at the top of the stairs, a dandelion on a migraine-laden day. I touched the sandy wallpaper and why is it that I felt was ours? I saw that paper, its light green vines and I see it still, like decisive cursive depicting a warm day: sailboats swishing beyond where you can no longer see and Nabokov spotting a new butterfly while he loafed under a tree. We had always known this room, even before we met each other, before this town lost their lake.

I imagined our lives in that house, our son building block condos and stretching out wooden train track on the wide pined floor boards.  I imagined it with such intensity it echoes in my mind years later louder than a memory.  As if we were among those people of this lost lake.  We could hear the deafening silence of no longer cicadas and a burnt landscape.  It is so much better to see this, to feel the scratch of this wall, cold but familiar under my hand than to think of where we were, that house where we left each other.  In that little room, we would have “alwawpeoirg erpigjerg.”

Is it easier to remember this room than it is to remember the dirt bag apartment we kept running from, the old house we could never fix, your tiny water view apartment I learned to love you again in? If we had landed in the town with the scorched lake, would I have been better able to save us.  Could I have stayed with you even longer?   In that room I knew I loved you.  

 (After these paragraphs I wrote a singular sentence underneath that reads, “Don’t let me be lonely.”)

Here is something else, too.  Sometimes, I still remember the rage I felt trapped with the ugly, unhappy alkie and weird stuff comes out.  Weird stuff that if refined and mybe embroidered over would look a bit like poetry -- not M. now, I am referring to boring guy who was a good lay. 

Your dead brother’s fucking guitar: you sold at your lame assed yard sale for like twenty bucks b/c you are a sad sack.  And then, your other dead brother’s china cabinet:  you kept taking my shit out of when you were mad at me and drunk.   I try to construct these little poems about you and me and our stupid five months together, three of which took place in the ratty, rented New Englander on L. Street. Nothing happened that could really be knotted into poetry, ostensibly. I watched my son withdraw and your son, so loud!  So much noise! So much, holy, holy fuck: take over everyone’s last iota of energy. (But yes, I still care about him; I will foever, probably). We had a lot of sex and it seemed like you learned all your night moves from an eighties porno when and maybe just a little bit from when you were fucking some chick in a seedy, North Fuckin’  Shore apartment.  She prolly had shitty teeth and a big ass.  It was prolly yer sister’s friend.  The one who was ten years older than you, which would have made her like 34 at the time while you were like 24 and slightly coked out or so you say.  I make up so much shit about you b/c you never told me anything. 

But…whatever. Sounds so very much like: “I’ll forgetter.”

Catching so many fish like shooting stars in the night that only you and I could see.  Like fire works on a driveway.

Or—

Catching so many fish like shooting stars. Fireworks crackling on the driveway. 

irish girls and their jean jacket buttons

I want to start writing for this blog again.  I realize it is pretty shity in many, many ways; however, I love to have much of my writing in one place so I am not forever wondering what happened to, say, that fucking poem about Bob at the end of summer.  What I hate about this blog now:  that creepy scrawny old used fucking jeans and chalkware Jesus statue salesman stole my journal.  In that journal were some drafts to long, drawn out posts on here. This, in a crazy stoner-styled way--leads me to have paranoid thoughts that maybe he'll know this is my blog.  MWS, aka, Mack always tells me I give that guy way, way too much credit.  He is prolly right.  I need to add many, many more photos.  I adore so many of the photos I am taking for the BAY OF E.  I love my detailed photos.  I love finding old vintage jeans, especially the men's button fly LEVIS.  So sexy, soft.  I need to write like a paragraph and do at least one photo per day. Ironic I make fun of a jeans sales guy, right, and then congratulate my fucking self for doing the same thing. 

I want to write a bit about selling well worn shoes.  There are some normal doods out there buyin' 'em up.  And then there are some needy as fuck guys who wanna have an emotional connection about it; super boring.  Needy.  Lame.  Give me yer money, then please leave.  Unless you are a junky with track marks and get how cool, say, I dunno, William Burroughs is, I want very little to do with your long, drawn out emails that show me yer "soul."  Boring.  And more boring.  

Here is a photo of some pins I took off a shitty lampshade at the dump last week.  I mean, no wait:  they are from an ESTATE. I got 'em from a teenage girl's bedroom.  She was an IRISH teen, guys.  I do love this photo. I think it makes me a bad ass that I took such a simple photo. I can see the teen girl.  She is a good girl, like in that song, the one who loves Elvis and horses.  And her bf, too.  And she has these pins.  She is not a fucking cutter cuz she's not a weirdo.  She is borderline anorexic and she is sleeping with this thirty four year old guy who has a permanent five o'clock shadow and Rasputin intense eyes.  Green.  She always thinks of that JD Salinger short story when she is fucking him, "Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes."  He does not get this.  He lives in a rented trailer in the rural part of her cousin’s town.  She sees him on the weekends.  The guy has a little girl and actually lives with a stripper.  This little red hair girl's got all these buttons on her jean jacket.  It's 1984.  She loves Billy Squire.  Mass is so boring to her, but she goes every fucking Sunday.  She goes with her cousin.  That guy’s wife works the lunch shift at Friendly’s; she goes over to the trailer after the service.  I can see her doing so many thing.  It would be crazy if these pins did not sell on the Bay of E. (Post note: they did sell, hahaha--2016)

Ok, here is what she wears on her jeans jacket; I have gone on way, way too long.  My favorite is the JESUS pin:

Wrote this During an Insane Time--And I feel the Same Today

I have a good friend who I just spoke with over the telephone.  She suggested that I start writing again, at least until I can recleaim the feeling of happiness I felt a month or so ago when I was without Mark.  I have been trying to live in a world without this man since I was twenty-three-years-old.  I am now almost thirty-eight.  This is an amazingly beautiful, fleeting life we've all got.  I am so sad that I keep getting sucked back in.  Here are the things that make me go back: loneliness; wanting a "real family;" not being close to my real family and having few friends; wanting Ezra to be happy; crazy fear about not being able to make it financially on y own; fear that ppl. will never know me as well as he does, as I have known him longer (in a sense) than my real family of even my own, beloed son.  But this last thing is not even true; it is only a fantasy spun out of the anxiety that happens when I am on my own.  He does not reall yknow me, as he does notreally know anyone, not even Ezra.  He is a self serving, spoiled creepy scummy guy who has the emotianl intelligence of a thirteen year old.  I deserve so, so much better.  Saying this, saying that I deserve so much better is even difficult, as he has led me to beleive--for years now--that I am crazy, lazy, selfish, a bad mother, etc.  If I view the world through his eyyes, and I tihnk desperate women like me do this often.. I do noth thingk I am unique in this way.. I feel like nobosy would ever love me.  He has told me that there is a "type" of man who married single moms and that they are predatory.  Interestingly, he wants to "date me" his own son's mother, have me clean his disgutingly gross apartment that looks like someonw ith mr lives there.  He wants me to listen to his political ideas (which are somwhat informed, but  born only out of a desire to serve his ego and to feel better than other, more educated ppl.  Note;  he is fabulously undereducated.)

This man has never truly parented a day in his life.  He wants Ezra so that he can have a buddy who keeps him company and admires him.  I beleive he keeps his daughter (who he has abonded many, many times) @ bay so that he can feel as though someone much better than him has a longing fo rhim.  his man has: lived in a trailer, date a prostiture/stippper; had the stripper burn down his apartment; had the stripper look after his daughter even though she had lost not one but two children to social services.  And he came out of this expereince not grateful that she was the only woman who ever loved his daughter, but angree b/c she stole a few hungred dollers, as he would not pay more than half of his share in their rental agreement.  THs man does no respect women.  He suess his very owen mother to bail him out of legal issues as well as for a place to live when nobody else will take him in.

I listened to this man belly-ache about how sad his life was, as his daughter's maternal grandmother raised her.  When the daughter was born the woman he had her with became so nuts she could not take care of her; thus he was--and cry me a river here, flolks--abandoned with his baby.  Of couse at age twenty-three why would I doubt this story?  Most twenty-three year old cannot be trusted to pay for appropriate car insurance, never mind synthesize real adult life situations.  I have heard lately that oone's brain does not fully even develop until they are twenty-five.  I adore our son with my whole entire heart.  And it is thus that I would most likely not restructure my life if I had the opportunity; however, imagining a life with this beautiful boy and a REAL man, an educated, kind man who did not manipulate his, his mentally ill daughter, his low life means-spirited-already parents, was not an immature drug user , etc. is a killer. It breaks my heart.  I imagine poetry written on cardboard castles, small tiny songs that you can hear on Sunday mornings, and friends over doing cool stuff, even playing PICTIONARY.

Cool Chimney

I referred to the cool chimneys in Sweden in another post.  But then I could not find a cool picture to illustrate my point.  I seriously cannot remember which post this was.  But here is a cool photograph.  It might not be the very best... I dunno, maybe I'll keep this post to illustrate what I am talking about, and I can update it on a reg. basis.

Fuck, and I am wondering why no one reads this blog.  Hm.  Could it be b/c I am even boring my*self*?

Doing It

Doing It

When I was thirteen, my best friend April and I spent almost every weekend with each other, as both of our fathers lived in the same city, which was over twenty minutes south of the sleepy, college town where we lived in during the school week with our mothers and younger siblings.  Our siblings, though mostly invisible to us, went with us back and forth on these weekends.

My dad lived in an impressive condo that overlooked the bay.  While he typed in his rapid hunting and pecking system, I would stare out the floor to ceiling windows at boats idling through the water’s dangerous current.  There was no wishing myself out of his condo, so I would call April.  Though April understood that my father was the antithesis of cool, she preferred spending time with me there in this place of exquisite light and clean lines.  We would make fun of my sister who was eight years my junior while my father either ignored us or suddenly blew up at us, whacked-out in his declarations of our under achieving slummy-ness.  Her father lived in the more poor section of this city, though it was not a dangerous area, nor were there any family housing units that accepted section eight vouchers or that kind of thing.  April’s father lived in a seedy place with a roommate who we never saw.  We wondered several times if there was even a roommate.  April’s father had a perennial bottle of JD next to his bed.  His bed was a mattress sans box spring on cracked wide pine floorboards.  The house smelled like stale pot smoke and broken air conditioning, especially in the winter.  If I had been the more dominant friend, the friend with the power, we’d have spent our weekends, all of them, at April’s dad’s apartment.  I felt bohemian there and though I wore preppy clothes that my mother bought for me and that mirrored the outfits of all my peers, I enjoyed fantasizing that I dressed like singer Steve Nicks, like some kind of haf prairie girl, have witch of all that is enchanted: black, sparkles, and everything billowing and flowing. 

On one particular weekend that punctuated our regular schedule of time spent reluctantly at my dad’s;, we sat in April’s dad’s living room almost crazy with boredom.  We brushed our hair and then each other’s hair.  We organized our makeup bags and talked about tampons as opposed to pads.  We wondered if we were anything like Dicey from Cynthia Voight’s Dicey’s song.  Would we have immediately gone for adult for help?  Would we have been instant in seeking out an adult first before single-handedly taking on our little siblings, traveling across the country looking for a living relative?  Or would we have ditched the siblings and found a cute man to look after us? We loved this idea; like the character in the book, our mother has abandoned us at the mall.  Before we decide what to do, we would shoplift tee shirts from the Limited.  Then, we might take the bus downtown to the record store where we’d find a super nice guy who would take care of us.  He would be old, but not so old that he was no longer cute, like almost forty.  We would leave our siblings in the dust, we usually concurred.

While we wandered through our fantasies out loud with each other, mostly whispering our ideas about these men who were several years younger than our fathers, we took big slurps from a red vintage thermos filled with cheap wine we found in the refrigerator.  We listed to reggae, UB40, on his turntable.  “Red Red wine, you make me feel so fine; you keep me happy, all of the time.”  Her little brother and father were sleeping.  The roommate, as usual, was nowhere to be found.  We decided to look through her father’s bureau that doubled as one of the crooked couch’s side tables.  After rummaging for several minutes through rubbers, broken pens, pencils with teeth marks and soiled erasers, and endless receipts for groceries, we found a stack of neatly typed, tissue-y papers.  We pulled them out gingerly and then, with girlish excitement, quickly. 

April’s father was taking a creative writing class, we decided.  For these papers were organized into bundles that were mostly fastened together with rusty paperclips and some were stapled together.  Each bundle had a header in the left hand corner with a first and last name and a date.  Below this, but centered, each bundle seemed to have a working title.  Looking through all the bundles, almost all at once, we almost immediately zeroed in on one bundle with the name “Cynthia Danish.”  Cynthia’s title read, “The First Time.”  April and I locked eye’s and squeaked.  Then she started laughing and borderline somersaulted over onto her heap of pillows.  She mock screamed into one of the pillows.  Then she said, “We have to read it;  it is a “doing it” story. 

We had read a ton of doing it stories.  As middle school girls, we were somewhat “over” Seventeen Magazine, realizing that style was not something you gleaned from a magazine, especially not for “teens.”  We gathered our current ideas for fashion by sitting in the student union building on campus in the town where our moms lived during the school week.  We would take notes and sometimes ask older, college girls what the thought of doc martins with hippy skirts.  And were high heeled cowgirl boots classy with jeans, or were they just slutty.  We wrote for hours about these questions and answered them on occasion after watching and asking so, so many older girls. 

I passed the doing it story to April and waited for her to stop with the giggles so we could start reading.  She took a big swallow of the wine, wrinkled her nose, coughed, and then took a big swallow of diet coke.  She cleared her throat again, and tucked her silky, near-perfect blond hair behind an ear.  Shaking her head, she started to read:

I saw Peter for the first time when I was over at Chuck’s house. It was afte a football game.  Our team had won and we were all pretty crazy with happiness.  SO happy, in fact, that we invited the other team to party with us that night.  My friend Jane’s parents were out of town, so that’s where we were all at.  I was sitting on a couch, on Dan’s lap.  And then I looked into the kitchen, and there was this tall guy with super hero hips and hair that looked like a movie star.  He was nodding his head and smiling with a cute frown that prefaced the grin.  I imagined a carton heart above my head.  Then I hoped off of Dan’s lap.  And I walked, sticking my chest out kind of, but not in a slutty way.  I walked like this the whole way into the kitchen.  And I tried to make my hair bounce, because I have naturally curly hair and it kind of boings when I walk, or at least people used to tell me this during highschool.

“Boing Boing.”  April and I howled.

“Girls!” Aprils father yelled, or I should say slurred loudly through his paper thin, bedroom walls.   

I could see this red headed Cynthia.  I could see her looking at this gorgeous dude and I was so impressed that she knew she was pretty enough to got and get his attention.

“Would you ever just talk to someone like that?” I asked April.

“Like what?”  She asked.”

“You know, first.  Like, she’s going into the kitchen to talk to that guy.  My God, I would be so nervous I would puke.” 

“You cannot be like that,”  April told me.  Sometimes she could be such a know-it-all.  And, I thought, I have had way more boyfriends than her., so why was I even asking her?  Because, I answered myself, she held all the power.  She was the boss of the friendship; without her, really , I was just a half pretty preppy alone at my father's house on the weekends.  

Kate Braverman

Is freaking amazing; my God, I adore her.  She is like a poet.  Or, she uses poetry to write her fiction.  She makes everything you read feel like a narcotic.  I feel her words in a visceral way.

And this page:

http://www.katebraverman.com/downloads/witchs_brew.pdf

made me feel excited to write; however, the writing I've started, the "story" about Ella, Ella's parents, and Delia is depressing to me.  The only kernel of hope for me with that project is the image of JT's old cape (which I've morphed into a New Englander), and the idea of the stained glass windows, etc.

Braverman suggests to you this:  do a case study of a landscape.  OK, resort town, you cold as a witches' hands, mean dark place, I will look into you like I look into the mirror.

I do think I differ here as both a writer and reader.  I am now less concerned with the writing that I am reading, and want more to hear/read about character.  Literary writing is less interesting to me, unless it is really good.  I no longer have "rules" for myself about what I read;  I love this; it is very, very freeing.  I wasted years forcing myself to read boring shit.  I want that time back.