pillars and posts

Teeth and muscles clench. I summon every ounce of respectable strength from the dark and dusty places of me. Eyes are locked shut causing creases from their corners to splinter smooth skin. Momentarily I manage some semblance of composure.

"Are you sure you can do this?," he calmly inquires

Angry lips limply purse. Wrinkles slip from constricted temples and in surrender, each muscle in unison releases from its attempted guard. I rest my steamy face against the cool of cotton sheets and resolve myself to the unease of dissonance and the pinching in my throat.

I crumble.

The Christmas list begins with...

1)

How cute is this?
(without the girly, side embellishments)
["tote" from DigiCouture]

2. Food Saver vacuum sealer

...and anything else tagged under "wish list"

balls in the air...

the lonesome, cherry red crock pot lacking purpose

the soon arrival of a certain soldier...and what I might make him for dinner

a paper on the global degradation resulting from capitalization

the 10 o'clock hour and how heavy are my eyes...[yawn]

the ideals of tomorrow's caloric intake

the ticking of a dryer's cycle

the chirp of my classical "study" music

the sheer volume of my dog's chair licking

the pyramid of dirty dishes in the sink, as well as the lost civilization of Just White plates and bowls residing the in bowels of my dishwasher

what I'll wear to the reunion

getting out of that group meeting tomorrow since class was canceled

[yawn]

my perplexity at the lack of information that I'm seeking for sources

his eyes...

tomorrow, tomorrow...

two whole days early?

...not that I've been counting.

[I'm smiling so big that it aches a little]

story time

He chuckles wildly from somewhere deep within himself. I pause my chatter to verify that I've heard this rare laughter, and I have.

"Man, I hated the military! In fact, I could have slugged the guy who called me into his office when my time was up...they call that...something other than re-enlisting, but that's what it was," he rants behind the belly rumble.

One of many really fantastic things about dating The Staff Sergeant is that it has awakened another grand avenue of my father's story telling.

He continues, "I had the meanest DI, man he was mean, but he could tell a great one liner. I think that if he had ever given up The Navy, he should have been a comedian...he had some great one liners..."

He's as bad as I am at staying on track.

"When you stand at attention, you can't laugh. You can't do anything, but you can't laugh, and that DI, some great jokes. So anyway, there was this one day that he dropped one into his talk [I can't remember what it was], and this 'ole boy couldn't help but laugh," he says with another diluted rumble, himself.

"'DO YOU THINK SOMETHING'S FUNNY?!' hollered the DI, 'I'LL SHOW YOU SOMETHING FUNNY! GET UP HERE AND LAUGH - FOR 20 MINUTES!' And that poor guy did. He stood in front of us and laughed for 20 whole minutes." my father finishes.

"They would do anything to embarrass you...I'll tell you what, I don't know if it made me a better man for being in the service, but I never once thought, 'I don't want to leave The Navy.'"

And that was just one of about 10 that found their way into last night's hour long "test of his new phone." My dad's a trip.

...I still miss my current man of the military.

Orion

Some things, although very few, are constant and unchanging...

Seven Heaven.

En lue of another depressing blog post that probably only inspires an audience to scope out the nearest and tallest bridge, I'd instead like for you to imagine the vibrant smile that appears when I remind myself that...

THE STAFF SERGEANT COMES HOME IN ONE WEEK!

Recent changes in plans may negate these statements. Verification pending.

when it rains, it pours.

The air is suddenly chilled, a product of the eternal rains. Glassy pools spread atop concrete planes awaiting the saturation of dragging hems, one of my most rued peeves. Another day is lost to a new brand of luck I have contracted. I would willingly stand in line, wet pants and all, if I might receive an effective elixir for this shadow of ill will. I long to sit and write of sunshine, both literal and proverbial. I'd love to talk of love. Love in Autumn. We'd sit carelessly beneath a ripe, red tree with leaves so brilliant that only children might replicate them in crayon. He and I would swap sugary glances and kiss while blue birds belted harmonies from the boughs. And then both you and I would cringe at the syrup-laden atrocity that had become my blog.

Moving on...

In seriousness, I wish that I could present something profound and beautiful, but all I am is cold puddles and the clouds that hang low and gray. Perhaps I have filled my plate too full and this is the ungraceful clattering of its spill onto the floor. Soon, maybe soon, I'll come out of this hole with intriguing subject matter [and a smile]. Until then, might you settle for wintry rain and a heart tired from the missing?

All I want to be is the minute that you hold me in

I could write about the 24 hours of rain that has dictated yet another gloomy-mood day.

I could write to tell you how I went to visit [cell phone provider] seeking aid in opening a photo of desert dunes that wouldn't...and how their inadequacies left me sitting in the drowning parking lot adding to the mist.

or about the raging headache that threatens the explosion of sinus cavities as the unpredictable up-and-down weather schemes fluctuate in sinister jests.

...but then if I broke into the incredible review of last night's Matt Nathanson and Ingrid Michaelson concert I attended, it would be an awkward change of pace. It might produce in you some kind of emotional vertigo, and, well, I would hate to have that burden on my shoulders.

beneath a little raincloud.

I'm in no shape to write. The words come out in sluggish lifeless groupings - lackluster and burdensome. It seems its all that way today, yesterday, the day before too.

I hold steadfast to some commitments but not without complaint, and others live only in the carnage of failed attempts. Some temptation is so alluring [I'll whine later about the end results of temporary pleasure]. I've talked myself into a slump, a low spot, a gray place, if you will. My words cannot rightly articulate a thought and the threads stretch beyond their giving abilities to hold together. I need a change of face...a brightening of heart. I need this week to be over, for some anticipations cause a soul to weaken. I yearn for the climax so I can again breathe and the minutes, the dragging, slothful minutes, to MOVE.

I think I'm going to bed...

the result of violence and deprivation

I did something I probably shouldn't have last night. I couldn't have foreseen the reaction, in the way that one who doesn't bother reading the warning labels on cleaning products naively mixes the ones that ignite. It's been 5 solid days since I heard his voice, and even then I was alloted a brief bullet-pointed delivery of the day's recap before he had to run. Really, it's been about a week since we've connected in a meaningful, verbal manner. I am apparently a bit needy, and so the apart-ness is hard.

I spent the night curled up on my sofa with Macbeth, gnawing a Nylabone at my feet. We aimed to watch a movie in order to entertain ourselves and enjoy the leisurely evening. I was caught up in the riveting plot. I was on the edge of my seat, rooting for the "good guys" when the bus exploded - blew out the windows, killed off the innocent characters the audience was lured into loving, marked a gain for the fanatical terrorists. I paused the movie. I needed a minute.

I miss him, and I wish the world wasn't such a scary place both in fiction and in reality.

YUM!

I want this: The Soul of a New Cuisine: A Discovery of the Foods and Flavors of Africa

principle or semantics?

Washington Post - "As War Dragged on, Coverage Tone Weighed Heavily on Anchors"

If you can imagine the hundred-thousand curiosities now spinning about my head...I'm dating a soldier. I'm a liberal supporter. I aim to study journalism following undergrad. And I'm a bit of a pacifist. I, like many people in this gray, gray world, am a walking conundrum.

The other stuff.

A lot of what I've written lately has revolved around matters of the heart. I'm sorry, it's distracting. You've all [hopefully] been there...[more than] smitten. The following is an update of life in addition to my amorous chronicles:

Mom has already spilled the beans regarding Christmas gifts. This year I'll be getting a queen size mattress that doesn't sag or fall through Dad's homemade platform bed frame, and my grandmother's 1920-something engagement setting adorned with an antique [conflict-free] diamond solitaire.

WAIT!

Before you jump to conclusions [and I know that if you know me, you are], it is not being passed on as an heirloom symbol of engagement. I already promised to exclude any reference to romance, so breathe and calm your racing pulses! It's just beautiful and it was given to me a few years ago by an aunt [sans rock]. It's very, very, [very] small...maybe 1/8th of a carat? But it's size is to be expected. It was purchased in an[other] era of war and somewhere around the beginning of depression...so it's sweet and sentimental and I'm really excited to finally have it once again intact.

Speaking of the infamous fam, Mom will be kindly serving my unknowing father with divorce papers next week. She just wanted me to have a "heads-up"...I was really more inclined to be heads down, over the toilet, sick with upset. No matter, it's coming [can you hear the rumble of impending discourse?]. If possible, I'll attempt to brace myself for the onslaught. Part of that plan includes sitting out on Thanksgiving. I'm staying planted for one of the two dreaded holidays. The [not so] Future Californian has expressed possible interest in spending it with me in rebellion, and The Staff Sergeant might possibly be game, and Mom claims that she might make the drive to Nashville, and maybe a cousin...I just want to lose myself in the preparation of a bird and cornbread dressing and cranberry sauce [even if I spend it alone].

In other news...I love the new[ish] job. Love, love love it! I love the people and the atmosphere, and today I fell in love with a china pattern, or rather, a mix of 3:

Richard Ginori, "Duchessa Gold"
Royal Crown Derby (accent plate only), "Indian Summer"
Haviland, "Laque de Chine Gold" (charger only), in "brick"

Again, WAIT! I haven't "picked out china"! Breathe, my friends. I will gladly accept these items in accordance with any/all upcoming occasions for gift-giving [Christmas, my birthday, just because you like me, etc.].

Now that you've gotten your BPM's down to a level of normalcy, I think Macbeth and I have kicked the flea infestation. I've become a domestic, baking machine [again] and I LOVE it [again]! I've also sworn off sweets, alcohol, and eating out while The Staff Sergeant is out of town in an effort to drop a few pounds [so my jeans fit]. I needed a project to focus on, and today marks the second of my 30-day gym commitment. No, the sudden cool-down is not a result of Hell freezing over, so don't ask or comment.

That's a fairly conclusive and loveless update on my life as I know it. I'm sure next week's earth-shaking debut of legal papers will prompt some interesting words. Until then, I may post again about missing my soldier.

Once upon a time...

...there was love.

[and patience.]

Maybe tomorrow.

Day 3:

I miss him, specifically the deep calm of his voice. He embarks today on 4 days in the field without communication capabilities. In this moment, I detest desert training, the rigor of the Army, The War, and every inch of distance that separates us. I'm still working on tapping into a mature approach to him being gone. I obviously haven't yet mastered the method. And so ensues another solitary night spent gripping pillows that never feel the same and dreams that lead to early morning let-downs. My head-over-heels heart is lonely.

Because change eventually becomes routine, this will become easier...sadly, not tonight.

...and counting.

It’s dark when the alarms sound, an act that should be illegal on a Saturday. My eyes crack and flutter open and I groan and whine, some regarding the abrupt interruption of sleep, some in futile protests to his approaching departure. Unfortunately, with the Army there is no room for negotiation of time. After some thought, I reckon with this fact, and reluctantly I roll out of bed. Fumbling in his unlit bedroom, my fingers grope the oatmeal carpet until grazing a known texture. I carelessly pull on last night’s cotton dress, knot tangled hair atop my sleepy head and stumble down the hall toward the Holy, hissing pot of brewing coffee.

From the retreat of the kitchen’s solitude I hear the zip and velcro of his backpack as he feeds forgotten items into its pockets. In a separate room I stand with bare feet in the glaring fluorescent light, fixated on the linoleum below them, concentrating on each intentional dip and peak of the texture. Perhaps I think that staring intensely enough to burn holes in the synthetic tiles will somehow halt time…in my mind, I begin the silent mantras one relies on in such scenarios to discourage tears.

It could be worse. It’s only a month…be thankful. He could be: gone longer, further, to war.

But I claim this routine, this weak coffee and skim milk routine. This “good morning” routine, the tousled hair and first-thing kisses, the sunrise and groggy awakenings. These are my mornings. These are my expectations and my comforts [and my Home], and for the next 30 days, the undeserving desert will hold them hostage!? In this moment, I want to stash away pieces of him like a greedy child so they might be untouchable by The Army.

Sometimes I am truly ridiculous…and juvenile.

He gently pours black coffee into a stainless steel “reenlist” mug and hands it over the counter. My throat tightens. I turn away to open the refrigerator and remove a half-empty carton of milk. In pours my usual, generous amount and I stir until the contents of my cup reach the color of the khaki uniform t-shirts he wears most days. The tears are welling in my eyes despite all efforts to fight them away, and I curse myself for being a pitiful, flowery, feely, girl.

It’s 6:19am and time to go. He pulls the door shut behind us. It clicks in affirmation. The iron stairwell clangs with each descending step. The air is slightly warmer today, the apparent result of an unexpected front, and the morning breeze dances across my naked legs. I wish these elements would somehow distract me, but they can’t take my mind off of his leaving.

He loads his truck and I wait quietly on the curb. When he is finished, the circumference of his arms encircles me. This, he, is goodness. I wish that by some gift of fate, our morning might not end in parting. I wish that the next month might not be characterized by the deprivation of distance. I wish there was no war requiring this kind if preparation. I’m trying to be unusually together in this menial trial, and what I really wish is that tears were not slowly rolling down my cheeks. A sloppy sniffle reveals my unwilling surrender to upset. He embraces me again, asking sweetly that I not cry over this short trip. Something is whispered in reference to “the grand scheme”…his body is warm and sturdy, his t-shirt is soft on my skin…he smells like [why can’t I put my finger on it?]…in the pre-dawn darkness the earth is quiet. These are the memories that will thread together our first “good bye.” It seems that this is all a kind of training for me as well. One day he will leave for longer. He will go further. It will be war…

Welcome to the Army.

The sun rises over the hills as the exit numbers increase and I near my apartment. The day has taken shape. He presumably boards a plane westward bound, and I pull into my parking lot before eight.

I begin counting the days until November.

a variation of the norm

I write from a Starbucks in Clarksville. An unusual scenario, but less so currently. I never thought there would be reason for any kind of familiarity with this place, but as it turns out, life is full of surprises. The best are those that totally catch you off guard, the ones that slap you across the face with the breakdown of misconceptions, the ones that then hurl you into the most incredible and happy direction your life has taken in a long, long while. So I write from a Starbucks in Clarksville...because I'm waiting out rush-hour, and there is an exam for which I'm supposed to be studying.

I'm still full of words to pour forth, quality words, and as soon as I get a free second I'll lay down something worthwhile.