universal truth

Sometimes I feel the great weight of this whole thing--being apart, knowing it isn't the last time, and knowing I still have to perform, [all] at once.

Mine is an act of blind compulsion. At 7am the squealing pulse of my cell phone goes off. I have nowhere to be, most likely, but anything later than that hour feels wasteful and lazy. I sit up in bed bed, fumbling for my glasses and make my way to the bathroom. Everything following this routine is the result of the necessity to hurl myself toward darkness, another day's end. If I don't think about the "great weight" or if I simply move forward faster than I think it can keep up, or if I tell myself that the inconvenience is almost over, not a pattern in the cycle that will soon form our life together, then the hours feel normal, like my friends', like the lives of conventional people.

No one spells out the phases of separation. No one has so kindly written What to Expect When You're Expecting Him to Return. Maybe I wouldn't have liked knowing that the last weeks would split my personality into multiples, none of which perform independently. Instead they vie for the spotlight hungrily, without reservation. I am angry and broken hearted and giddy with excitement, and overflowing-happy, while tears pool in dark spots on my clothes and vainly shouted curses ricochet from wall to wall, unheard. I have embraced the control that lies in day-long check lists and home projects and rendezvous with friends that have become my family. There are time-spots left open for washing dishes and ceremonies put into play for scrubbing sinks and the tub. This autonomy makes sense, this is what had to happen.

Now I am asked to hang in waiting for a coded word, then the next one and the next until he finally steps from the magic vessel that will bring him home. I'm no good for these terms, and what about after, when my lists are disrupted and my support group is pushed into second place, and the Army has control again of more than just an arrival date. How does the switch flip smoothly? How is it possibly fair to be expected to bounce from one existence to the other without suffering an inevitable and utter breakdown?

greetings from a dreary Monday

There isn't much to tell and maybe I'm also extending my break from blogging because I can. But again, not much to tell. With things spicing up in the world and a completely screwed up switchboard system, my levels of anxiety are on a steady climb. I've gotten a series of about five calls in close to two weeks that have amounted to a lot of brief words before an automated operator hangs up prematurely. In under 10 minutes, with warnings that your talking time is quickly expiring, there isn't much that you can feasibly say, except to make sure you squeeze in an untimely "I love you," because that's what matters most. Even though we have spoken, we haven't really gotten to talk, no e-mails either. The sparse communication is just now starting to wear on me, and the shift from sunny 70 degree days to sleet and rain and resurfacing Winter coats, and my stuffy nose and general feelings of gross. But before Winter stopped in for one last hoorah, everything was pretty swell.

The weather has been beautiful. I spent a good part of this last weekend with the doors open, completely relaxed, tending new sprouts and day dreaming long evenings that will be spent on the porch with my soldier, sipping wine for me, beer for him. Though those days are still a long way from right now, it's pleasant to think of them, to be able to think of them as that much closer.

I almost went through the transplanting process while the sun was out and the days were ripe for potting plants, but this Blackberry Winter was looming on the horizon so I waited for possibilities of frost to subside before chancing my seedlings' exposure to the elements. Just when I had given up on my tomatoes, a tiny sprig of green showed itself, and I awoke this morning to find that my zucchini was busy pushing up through soil all night long. This from-seed business doesn't sit well with my total lack of patience; however, if all goes well, I'll be a veritable produce stand by June or July. I'm still mulling over chickens, although I picked the breed and have glanced over coop designs. I keep coming back to the anchor they would be. Who the hell am I going to hire on to tend chickens if I travel? Am I really ready to be that tied to home? Questions that still need to be reasoned with before I seal the deal.

"spring" break

I want to cry.

11 of 31: giving (and giving, and giving...)

I am a real live girl, though I would love to pick the brain of every woman who stands by her soldier needless, wanting for nothing.  I read this the other day as I worked hard to hold down the cushions of my sofa:

There is absolutely nothing your servicemember can do to make you feel better about deployment and handling life on your own.  He cannot leave his station, and he cannot come to your rescue.

And I thought to myself, "If I could meet this condescending portrait of person, I don't believe I could restrain myself from verbally attacking her, at the very least."  I am so completely, utterly tired of this mantra that is ceremoniously passed down like a spirit stick of vacancy.  I cannot be that woman; there is a reason that he is a soldier and that I am not.  I don't believe that I have to be that hollow person while he is gone.  I don't believe that I can be or that such expectations should be set for any one of us who count the days until our hearts return from war.

This is damn hard, and I am willing to suffer the consequences of saying so.  I need and expect just a little because this is, after all, a relationship, a matter of give-and-take.  I fully understand that he is limited, that he is tired and stressed out, and maybe even homesick, but who the hell decided that those who are left behind should be empty human beings that feel nothing, that need nothing at all in return?  

There are some days that I can't stand this culture.  

6 of 31: giving (proof)

Here it is folks - signs that Winter is losing the fight!  And not a moment too soon:

This post is the last thing on my list before loading the car and getting the hell out of Dodge.  I need the break.  I need the distraction as I am fending off tears right now while I write these words.  I'm feeling very...I don't know, unfulfilled in the moment.  I can't help wanting more than is rationed for today, for this week, for Us.  And what better way to avoid the reality of dealing with it than to escape?

What's that behind you?  

[I'm slipping out the door while your head is turned.]

underneath the covers

Sometimes I truly feel like I'll never find my place in the Army lifestyle.  If I were paid per avoided confrontation I could drop all of this business of higher education.  I am not a conservative republican.  I am not a conservative...anything.  I am not religious in the Christian sense or in any other conventional sense.  I just don't fit those molds and I really, really, really hate it when someone advertises their belief/moral/value system by talking shit about "the others."  

When I think of the "democratic mindset," I think "tolerance."  I think of humanity and equality and advocating for people who deserve better.  It's difficult for me to respect a person who tells me that they know the difference between political supporters and have all their life, hence their staunch alignment with [fill in the blank]-ism.  What that speaks to me is close-minded-ism, in flashing neon language.  

While my blood pressure rises and my ability to sit at the table, composed, begins to lessen, I smile so as not to upset the dynamic of a situation.  I don't have a problem with the little foundational stone of free thought or free speech for that matter, it's when you, who knows nothing about me begins to explain how my entire ethical make-up is skewed.  I don't wage war on those who are different from me on the sole basis of difference, in fact, The Staff Sergeant himself is rooted in an opposing thought process.  But it burns me up when your self aggrandized notions are compelled to leap above such a simple and humble element as respect.  

What I don't understand is how you don't get that.  Despite the refuse of the last eight years and the continual fracturing of The Church, I don't think I pass personal judgment so simply.  I don't think you're wrong for not voting the same way as me or for praying to God or whomever your prayers reach.  I just wish I could be myself without threatening you or causing a heated debate over coffee.  I wish that I didn't feel the need to mask the pieces that make me because good people come in all flavors.  There is no need for immediate divisions, we're all left behind, we're all directly attached to war whether or not we agree with it, whether or not we reach upward or outward with our minds or politics or scriptures.  Life is very, very gray for you to have painted your vision of it so black and so white.  

I live in the house of Murphy's Law, the bloody-cold house of Murphy's Law - with frozen kitchen pipes and my feet are numb.  And that's just the latest thing that could go wrong and did.  I hate this house...

But in the house of Murphy's Law cookies are love.  I made a special batch this afternoon with all of my heart and longing thoughts to find him in far off places:

Chocolate Peanut Butter Chip Cookies

2 c. all-purpose flour

3/4 c. cocoa

baking powder

1 tsp. salt

1 c. dark brown sugar

1 c. granulated sugar

1 c. unsalted butter at room temperature

2 tsp. vanilla

2 eggs

6-8 oz. peanut butter chips

Preheat oven to 325 degrees, line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper; sift together flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt in a medium sized bowl

In a large bowl beat butter, brown sugar and granulated sugar until fluffy.  Add vanilla and eggs and beat well.  Stir in the flour-cocoa mix, then fold in peanut butter chips

Drop the cookie dough by the tablespoonful onto the prepared baking sheets.  Bake 8-10 minutes, then let cool on racks.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night

I'm home for Christmas and just like last year it isn't what I had hoped for.  I've had to cut my trip short and neither parent is pleased with the abbreviated visits.  There is no tree at my Dad's, no empathy at Mom's.  It seems more probable that this is the going rate now, the status quo, expected.  I had wanted so much more from the holidays this year -- a roaring fire and the twinkle of tiny lights descending from a tree's peak in woven spirals and that intangible, indescribable feeling of comfort and rightness.  I hate that my muscles now clench as the oddities of others become irritants that mark the Christmas season, for example, the 62 inch projection of an exclusive musak channel.  

My father reminded me on the way home from the big family dinner that I do have much for which to be thankful.  And I do, though it really is difficult to clear away the fog of Murphy's Law long enough to give appropriate praise for physical health and economic security.  I have the pleasure of loving an amazing man who treats me like a princess.  I take a lot of things for granted, nevertheless I'm tired of fighting battles.  Maybe I ask for too much or expect too much.  Maybe I outgrew Christmas with age.  Maybe I actually am lost in a sea of raging idiots.  I'm leaning toward the latter and it chips away daily at my usual disposition and temperament.  I want one day to pass without a major trial, and to forget for one day the notions of deployment and war and divorce and wrong-doers.  I want a simple task to be effortlessly executed.

Perhaps tomorrow will be the day, a Christmas miracle, if you will.

if only a sigh were loud enough

My muscles pinch and crawl like intolerable little spiders up and down my back, up the length of my neck, around my middle.  I balance in between grabbing for the swimmy-head, stomach tickling anxiety pills and screaming and swinging and unbinding any sense of composure I have ever held myself together with.  

I don't understand why there are times when each single task erupts into odyssey after odyssey.  It's god-damn over-the-phone bill paying.  It is MADE to provide a convenient service!  Charge me ONCE, not twice OR not at all!  It's tracking down the apparently out-of-print book for 19th century lit. that LITERALLY is only housed at the smallest, out-of-the-way-est library known to mankind, and it only took 10 phone calls and an absurd conversation with the 85-year old uninformed campus librarian who could NOT explain to me why the online catalog listed the fucking book as both "available" and "checked-out" before I could lay my twitching, exhausted hands on its cover.  And it's the bionic fleas that refuse to surrender the sweet, tender flesh of my poor, suffering dog, and the vet money I don't have and every cure I've tried [as best as I could].

I meant to tackle backed-up homework, though the universe clearly had other plans.  I spent the day unpuzzling an unexpected Rubiks Tuesday.  A couple of times I considered erasing my notion of maps and to-do's and driving aimlessly forever, but I settled on cooking my woes into oblivion.  I checked-out the book, had treated the dog with prescriptions and unearthed an intricate grocery list from the bowels of my purse.  I wandered until I found myself parked in a grand Kroger lot.  With eco-friendly shopping bags and wallet in hand, I entered the automatic gates of Salvation.  Ripe palettes of produce, chirping lasers kissing barcodes, panes of frozen aisles, warm yeasty shelves of bread; I love this pocket of life better than the hilarity of the world at large.  With my blue bag brimming full of dairies and veggies and tubes of dough, I caught myself before making my way to the finish-line cash register.  Hard cider and less of a white-knuckled grip on each angry minute beyond the thick walls of food would feel nice.  Finished, I went to pay.

This is where I picked up [yesterday].  And rising today, full on sleep and drawn by sunshine I started collecting myself, directing myself, finding my Wednesday purpose.  All was well and free of anxious, crawling muscles until I dumped out my purse for re-organizing.  No wallet.  Of fucking course: no wallet.  Because how could a day be whole without the blinding frustration of something amiss!?  And again I want to drive away, uncoil my mind with a pill, fire up the oven or uncork a thick, glass bottle of freedom.  

It's still at Kroger, holding my place in the land of salvation, only I'm miles and miles away, stuck in the here and now.

um. so. yeah.

I rubber-stamped some manila folders [to keep my school papers organized and fashionable] but I couldn't stop there. I've had a strangely creative day in comparison to this summer's drought-for-ideas and this whole blog thing - it remains a festering sore. It seemed an appropriate time to give this place a bit of focus. I can't decide what I want with it, and frankly, I shouldn't even be thinking about a blog with all of the reading I should be maintaining. I'm a believer that balance must be found and also, it's Friday, so I let my mind creatively wander to bloggier places than Erdrich and Jacobs.

[but only for a spell]

I'm thinking that this could absolutely not be what I want out of "new" and "fresh." What the hell, though, right? If we all cumulatively despise a limp attempt at irony, The Sound is only an upload away. For now, I'm going to sleep on this and see how you respond. We'll convene next week for a final judgment.

new beginning?

This is like running into an old friend on the street, after a huge [or trivial] episode has sullied a thick-as-theives connection. I'm not sure what to say. My face probably projects an awkward confusion. I'm the [mostly] nice girl, so I want to be kind. And maybe I miss her, truly, because she once held my hand through something rough. It certainly breaks my heart to remember that she was once as necessary as favorite jeans and the right color of foundation. I would keep gentle eyes and afford her a muted, though sincere warmth, and possibly ask about men and work. The performance of discomfort is inevitable and its moves are forced and foolish, yet you play the part knowing that the chance of rediscovery is worth more than feeling caught off guard.

So I'm here, unsure of what to say, how to lead myself through the rhythm of writing without deletion. My fingers ache. They twitch and jump with the desire to make words into phrases, into sentences and on into something complete [enough]. I feel awkward now because I let some things get under my skin, and I felt so bound to censorship by the boundaries of security and judging eyes. And there's also the circus tent of grad school that keeps me currently contained. This kind of school is more than I ever imagined it would be, but I love it. It is partially responsible for my leaving [the lonely sound] and partially responsible for an attempt to continue what was started. I must begin writing again to prevent rusty wheels and rusty gears and rusty eloquence. I need a place to empty after all of the ice has melted.

I'm going to try this again, but I can't help feel that something should be different. I'm contemplating a new idea altogether or actually breathing life into that wordpress address I claimed months ago for just-in-cases. Until I can get the ball rolling, know that all is well[ish] in English and Creative Writing and that the Staff Sergeant is spoiling me rotten. There's so much more to tell but Margaret Fuller is begging to be read and this stuffy head-cold needs another round of lemon tea.

Not Even Close.

Every effort feels more like painful dry-heaving than the last. There is nothing but an empty failure, a hollow intestinal wretch. Not even with paired fingers pushing, urging substance can I produce. Why, when I should be full on living, fat on experience, on love and excitement, is there nothing, not even a burning dribble of written proof? Where is my desperate syrup of ipecac? Where is the ground up, half digested evidence that once thrashed here with liveliness? I did relish this place. I would sneak away to purge my heartaches, my livid anger, my careless, blurry, sobbing pieces, and I didn't know you and I didn't care. These days it seems that I am empty before I even arrive.

Tell me again about the whale

I've listened to this Incubus album 4 entire times [easy]...I've typed over 2,550 mindless, meaningless words on a topic that I can only describe as excruciatingly boring...I haven't had a substantial conversation with The Staff Sergeant in almost a week [or a good night's sleep]...beyond this paper, there's still so much work to do before it's over...my jaw aches from chewing gum, but it channels my anxiety somewhere other than my fingernails or bottom lip or innocent pen...I want to shut this laptop and crawl into someone's arms who is more concerned with my splitting seams than the tax man, who listens when I need to be a little unnecessarily broken, who punches out motherly encouragement in bold, red letters, just in case I glanced over their presence on a page.

unbelievable

I've promised myself not to blog any longer about the sickness, so I'll be quick in the breach of said given word. I'll only allow it too, because it's a NEWLY diagnosed situation. It would seem that the flu moved inward to concentrate in the womb of my chest where it mulled for a while before mutating into bronchitis.

FAN-tastic!

We're treating it now so to prevent this off-shoot of the former illness from morphing [yet again] into it's close of kin, pneumonia. Two weeks later and I'm still...

[there are no words to release my frustration!]

...I'm going to the pharmacy now again.

consistency

I've finally rebounded enough to live once again in some semblance of normalcy. I still become engulfed by fits of coughing, and I tend to tire a bit more easily, but I can sleep on flat surfaces instead of last week's rising range of pillows [to keep the mucus flow maintained]. I can work an entire shift, sit through a day of class, and can sleep without the aid of medicinal remedies.

[relief.]

Everything else is also back to the usual, current state. I quickly readjusted to the single-dating life I left last week and it feels like a dream to have seen him, to know his environment as fact over imagination. Perhaps I put the thought of his skin against mine out of my head on purpose. A numbness about the separation makes it more bearable to be away from the object of one's true affection.

I've spent too much time focussed on these subjects. They have been somewhat overpowering in my presence, though.

...on another note, outside tiny flecks of glittering snow fall beneath street lights. As always I am hopeful for a day off due to inclimate weather. I'll not hold my breath, but I might cross my fingers.

It's short and choppy, but at least it's something to say I'm here. The bed calls, it's been a long day.

And so it is...

I found this little gem at shoeboxblog.com [and it made me laugh]:

Top Five Reasons Why February Doesn’t Suck:
By Chris
1. The weather. No, that’s wrong.
2. Summer vacation is just around…no it’s not.
3. You can start wearing…wait. No you can’t.
4. Valentine’s Day was happy. If you were already happy.
5. It’s two days shorter than the other months. But not this year.

This flu thing is really wearing me down, thus to illustrate my state of mind, I begin with a very cynical, yet clever top-5 list. I am feeling somewhat that way myself as of late. We are now into day 7, yes, SEVEN! of this delightful influenza journey and I've exhausted all patience with my body's lack of wellness and the inabilities I am face as I try to get back into the swing of work and school. I basically feel like the wee little scrawny kid who gets beaten-up every day for his lunch money. I'm just waiting for the parent-teacher conference that quells the daily ritual.

Tuesday I attempted two classes. Sitting effortlessly and immobile, what could be so hard? By the end of the second, I was practically asleep on the desk as all of my insides pleaded to go back to bed. I went home to nap for four hours and called it a night shortly thereafter. Wednesday I was shocked to awaken to an unfamiliar "whole human" feeling that had seemingly replaced that of the "walking dead." I demanded that Work let me come in for a half day, which entailed sitting in a chair recording inventory...yet again, my body failed me. I was asked to leave after four hours.

I'M READY TO BE WELL DAMMIT!

So here I am, still trying to ease into the routine I hated last week and that I now fantasize about today...oh, to be able to stand for an entire 8-hour shift of work, or to sit without struggle through my long academic Tuesday's.

It truly takes so little to rearrange a person's perspective. It seems that I am continually shown that lesson both with the trial of the army and those [evil] forces of nature and Her "Flu Season."

One of my biggest motivators for feeling well, or at least looking as though I feel well is tomorrow's flight. I'll be leaving [...on a jet plane] late Friday afternoon for a weekend retreat with The Staff Sergeant. I'll be honest, four weeks has seemed very long, not necessarily with grueling connotations, rather with dissipating ones. It hasn't been much of a battle, yet it's heartbreaking to realize how much of Us seems to have transitioned into a vaporous and intangible form, save that daily phone call. I've talked with my girlfriends who are in the midst of The Great Divide and have watched as they anticipate brief homecomings. I don't know how they do it and ever let him leave again. I'm uncertain what kind of person that makes me, but even now with two days to take him in, I can't help being worried that my return will be harder than even his initial departure. There is something to be said for the milestone marker of X weeks down and X to go, but the ones lying between now and then still lie between now and then. Seeing his face again will surely melt away any apprehensions in my heart, it's just...time will pass all too quickly, being in his presence will feel like a tease.

And so, tempted as I am to curse the stars, life happens for reasons beyond me. Even when it seems that nothing good can possibly be the result of sickness, distance or even February, there are always little glimmers of silver linings to either be found or forged.

I'll work on being mindful of that notion.

Flu, be gone!

As I sit down here with a cup of spearmint tea and honey many subjects come to mind.  They begin traveling down the synaptic gateways to anxious, waiting fingers, yet for none of them do I have the state of mind or energy to write.  The fingers must further be deprived...my mind's medicinal fog has yet to clear, I am still weary.

In what seems like The Era of Influenza, I have been battling the viral beast.  I'll post more when everything is clear again and I have the energy to focus.