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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| I'm really tempted not to write. I'm not in a good place there is a risk by giving myself free reign, I will find out that the chasm is wider and darker than I originally imagined. Fairytales are crap and happy endings are elusive at best. I'm back to believing that not believing is really a better choice for broken people afterall, and we are all just a little broken I think. Broken by the dried out husks of someone else's empty promises, by the mistakes that made holes in our souls, by angry words spoken in the dark that can never be recalled or recanted. Broken by new damage on top of old. |
| I ran out to run a few errands at lunch and was surprised when I was assaulted by an urge I had not had for several years. While waiting in the line for the drive-up teller I had the sudden desire for a cigarette. It has been years and years since I smoked with any dedication. I quit one day without any drama, and never looked back. Today however, I craved one of those loathesome sticks like a seasoned addict. Stress, my sinister companion these last few weeks, was messing with me. Instead of pulling into to buy a pack of camels, I scanned the stations frantically and finding an old Rolling Stones tune, engaged another other one of my vices for a few moments...loud music. While it wasn't the much preferred for my purposes, Buckcherry or Saliva..."Gimmie Shelter" had just enough of a driving beat to inspire some steering wheel slapping and throaty singing. I rode that tune all the way back to my parking space, my weary brain thankful for the distraction. I'm not willing to go backwards in this life. There are many places I will not revisit. Sometimes you can not help but open old wounds, there are places where my soul will always be a little more broken than others but I try not to tread too heavily on the faultlines of my past pain. Having a smoke in a weak moment, just feels like I would be doing exactly that. |
| I roll down my window and let the ocean breeze in. It does little to calm my nerves. I finally manage to get a hold of you on your cell and you feed me some bullshit about them making you wait thirty minutes for our grinders. It six months into your so-called sobriety and you are thirty minutes late for our lunch. You are thirty minutes late and your words are thick over the cell phone, thick like they get when you've been drinking. I watch your car pull in front of mine. I watch you get out and stumble toward my door, a paper bag crushed carelessly under your arm. I smell the booze before you even drop into the passenger seat beside me. You lean in for a kiss and I instinctively pull away. “Are you alright?” I ask, knowing you are not and not really wanting to listen to another lie. You hand me my grinder but leave yours untouched. That is another thing I have noticed lately, you never eat anymore. I put mine aside, my appetite suddenly having evaporated. How long have you been drinking today? When I talked to you an hour ago, you seemed fine. “Let me drive you home.” I offer, trying to keep any trace of accusation out of my voice in an attempt to avoid an argument that I can not hope to win. You raise one eyebrow at me and tell me I’m being ridiculous. I try not to acknowledge the lead weight of despair that has suddenly dropped into my gut. You make an awkward exit back to your car and have trouble getting it started and into gear. Panic seizes me as I realize you intend to drive yourself home and I know that you are in no condition. Deciding against calling the police, I take off after you. I know it's futile attempt to control an out of control situation but I do it anyway. I tell myself that at least I will know you made it home alive and did not kill anyone in the process. The short drive back to our apartment passes like an eternity. I watch your weaving car, my heart so far up in my throat that I can’t breathe. My heart gives a terrifying jolt when you nearly take out a speed limit sign as you exit the highway. I wonder, my anger mounting, where all the police are when you need them? Are they busy pulling over drunks somewhere else? I make a frantic, tearful call to my secretary, telling her the bare bones of what is happening and tell her I’ll be in as soon as I can. My next call is to your mother. I simply tell her that you’ve been drinking. When I get to the part about not being able to handle this on my own, my control gives way and I find myself sobbing. She tells me she’ll be there to meet us. Relief washes over me as you round the corner and park in the apartment lot. I watch you stumble across to the building and let yourself in with my key, the key you managed to manipulate back into your possession again. I swallow hard to keep the shame at bay and wait for your mother. In the time it takes for her to arrive, I’ve searched your car and found the bottles. One empty vodka magnum and one half full have been lodged under your seat. I recognized the dark red and black label of your favorite brand. I know that even in the face of this indisputable evidence, you will deny the truth. You will cling to the assertion that you are sober; have been sober as if your life depended on it, which it does. I watch your mother pull into the parking lot, thinking of those six long months of your hospitalization and the lifesaving procedure that spared you. She and I go up together to find you passed out in my bed, snoring soundly. The apartment reeks of alcohol. The mask of despair on your mother’s face must match my own. I leave her with you. Little words have passed between us other than her promise that she and your sister would take care of this that you would not be there when I get home. As a consolation, there would not be many of your things to collect. You have not lived with me since the last visit to detox and the subsequent rehab stay. I head back to work, sick with my shame and filled with dread. Its not that I actually believed you would stay sober forever. I think I’d ceased believing in that fairytale about the same time I stopped believing in a life with you, at least the life I wanted for myself. My dreams for a home and family with you died a slow and painful death during the weeks your life hung precariously over your head. My unconditional love rotted inside me, fueled by the endless hours of caring for your convalescent body as you bleed around your rectal tube, oblivious to everything. I had given up so much but you still managed to leak inside me again, little by little, after months of good behavior. The visits to my apartment had grown into overnight stays and had stretched into weekends before I had even realized it. Why do I let you hurt me over and over again this way? The wounds scarcely start to heal over before I allow you to tear them open again. When I get home, as promised, you are gone. I light candles and close the windows your loving sister had thoughtfully opened to air my place out. Sometime in the afternoon my cell phone rings and your sorrowful sobbing fills my ear. You tell me you have to let me go, you can’t keep hurting me. I listen to you, and then lamely say “okay” before closing my cell phone with a snapping motion and slipping it back into my pocket. Good. Goodbye. Good luck. At home in the apartment I set about reclaiming it once again. I tear the sheets off the bed with more violence than is actually necessary and wash them, twice. I pour myself a glass of wine and sit soaking in a hot tub of bubbles. I prepare for the call that will inevitably come later. You will call from a ratty pay phone in the urine-colored hallway of the detox ward and you will slur your apologies and your empty promises...again. Before bed, I crack the nearly forgotten bottle of Tylenol pm, pop two and fall into bed. Awakened hours later by the phone, I only half-listen to a one-sided conversation you will never remember, the drugs administered to dull your withdrawals already thickly coursing through your veins. After I hang up, I slept like the dead. |
| The trees outside the window look as if they were dipped in powered sugar. The landscape is lovely even thought it is supposed to be Spring, a Spring we all well deserve. This morning I reluctantly dragged Jaden’s heavy winter coat down from her closet, wrestling her into it while she pointed to the dark television and mumbled “mo mo” (translation: Elmo) over and over again. I fought to keep the cell phone trapped between my ear and shoulder while I worked on getting her ready to go. I hoped my co-workers on the conference call could not hear my daughter’s demands or my frantic, whispered explanations why she could not watch her Elmopooloza video this morning. I have always given props to full-time Moms but this working Mom stuff is hard too. I always feel like I’m failing in one way or another. My worlds often overlap, whether it’s a meltdown at daycare that causes me to be a few minutes later, or a conference call that makes me cut an outing short or breaks up a vacation day. I confront a stigma on both ends; at work I’m the employee with childcare issues and at home I’m the Mom who has to leave her child at daycare – the first one in my family to do so. I’m lucky to have a job in this economy, one that enables me to keep Jaden at the daycare of my choice, a place that is safe and sweet and close by my office. I’m lucky that I have a husband who readily steps up to help, even if it means starting his day hours earlier than he needs to in order to get Jaden to school so I can focus on an ill-timed conference call. I’m lucky that I have a daughter whose spirit is one of sunshine and smiles and that she still looks at me like I am the very center of her little world. Without all these gifts, my life would be significantly harder, my work far less rewarding and my parenting much less effective. |
| I woke up this morning with an ache in my gut, a dull sorrow tugging at my waking conscious. He's is out there somewhere , I think in the dim light. The realization, always slumbering in the back of my mind, stirs a well of mixed feelings and I hug my sleeping daughter tighter into the curve of my body in the dark for comfort. When I sift through the anger and betrayal, I find the connection, unbroken, and I remember the face that occupies so many frames in my memory. It is hard to lose someone even though they were always lost somehow. Choices made can not be undone and even the passing of time will not heal certain wounds but neither will it fully erase the bonds, even the ones not forged in blood. I am angry and hurt but the thought that he may be out there, angry, hurt and alone is more painful. This is the ache in my heart, this is the hole in my spirit. How do you fix the unfixable? How do you forget the other brother? |
| I am puzzled by my inability to keep fish alive. In fact, if I recall all the years of schooling in marine biology, the independent research projects and all the extracurricular activities, that fact that I can not keep a handful of tetras alive longer than two weeks becomes down right embarrassing. When I was in college I had a basic 10 gallon fresh water aquarium that housed half a dozen assorted tropicals. That tank and its inhabitants traveled back and forth to Jersey with me multiple times in the school year without a single casualty. Those fish lived almost in spite of themselves. I am certain they were subjected to any number of bizarre treatments the hands of my roommates while I was in class, including exposure to some recreational narcotics. I'm positive they were either not feed or overfed on a regular basis and I can not imagine haven taken time from my hectic college schedule to have done anything as mundane as testing their Ph or Ammonia levels or even doing regular water changes. All that, and yet they lived, thrived even. Since leaving my college days and aspirations of being a famous marine biologist behind, I've upgraded from a lowly 10 gallon to a beautiful 45 gallon freshwater tank with the expensive Penguin Dual 350 Bio Wheel filter, the Cadillac of filter for hobbyists. I have any number of water conditioners, stress coat formulas and various other bottled exlixers that all but guarantee tank and fish health. I've decorated the tank with colorful plants and amenities to make any fish feel comfortable and as anxiety-free as possible. All this, and I'm still scrapping poor dead fish from the filter pipe with my little white net. Puzzling and embarrassing. After the last fish perished, I abandoned the tank for several months, watching it turn into a green, murky, inhospitable place. I laughed off the teasing comments and tried to ignore the hopeful way my nephew ran up to peer into it, as if there would suddenly be something to see. Then, last weekend, I took the plunge...again. I shook off fears of my fish-keeping inadequacies and got it cleaned, got it running. After a few days, I took Jaden and headed off to Petsmart to purchase a small, inexpensive clutch of Neons and Zebra Danios...the heartiest, cheapest fish I could stock a tank with. Jaden is delighted with our new pets. They are small, not very flashy and a little hard to even find in the big tank but so far, they are alive. Well, to be honest, I've lost one Neon but he looked a little peaked when I first brought him home so I'm not really counting him. Though my recent success does not outweigh my past failures, I am cautiously optomistic that my fish killing days may be behind me. I'm tempted to get Jaden some more fish, at least ones with more color that are bigger than piece of paperclip...maybe some Tiger Barbs or Gouramis or Red Finned Sharks...or maybe I shouldn't get ahead of myself just yet.... |
| Monday morning brings a whole new onslaught of more issues here at work. In an effort to stave off my stress, I spend a few minutes catching up on the national news via the internet. There are countless new video clips and images this morning of the devastation in Japan. It is hard not get lost in the photos that depict scenes of impossible destruction. The image that affected me the most though was a candid picture someone snapped of a man reunited with his wife and infant at one of the evacuation shelters. It is a very intimate photo of a man overcome with relief at having found his family believed to have been lost in the tsunami. It made me think, what would I do if my family were suddenly taken from me by forces beyond my control? It is unimaginable, unfathomable. I think about this man’s frantic search, the aching grief he must have fought to keep at bay while he looked for his wife and child, fearing the worst. Then, in the midst of chaos, he finds them safe. He can grasp his wife’s hand again and press his baby against his heart. This little family is reunited and though the future is uncertain, and their world rendered unrecognizable, they are together and nothing else matters. |
| It is hard not to be drawn into the images and video footage of the Japan earthquake and tsunami. They are as captivating as any Hollywood blockbuster disaster movie, more so because they are real. The devastation is a horrible reminder that the most powerful force known to man is the natural forces of nature. I watched the video report from Reuters that showed a tsunami hitting the port, sweeping up what had to be hundreds of cargo vans and buses in the advancing swells. They looked like matchbox toys caught up in the massive wave. It is impossible not to look at the images of the streets littered with mountains of debris, houses ablaze and the airport rendered unrecognizable and not pause to think of the people. Natural disasters on this scope remind us all that we are one people under God and that we remain at the mercy of the same planet that we so often mistreat and misuse. |
| I have not seen the movie Paranormal Activity I or II, but I've watched the trailers with mild curiosity. If I believe that spirits walk among the living, then I must allow the possibility that some of those entities may have malicious intent but I believe those things to be anomalies. I believe for the most part that those souls still connected to this waking world, are universally well-intentioned, curious, temporary displaced or unwilling or unable to cross over. The belief that some bonds are forged so deeply that death's calling can not separate us from our loves ones permanently, brings me great comfort. It gives my grief and loss a place to seek refuge, a warm place in which I can feel connected to those that have passed. I have had few experiences, most in my own home, that have admittedly unnerved me but have also left me feeling grateful. I imagine it is a feeling akin to believing in something like Bigfoot or Loch Ness and finally one day catching an glimpse, undeniable proof that what you have believed in on principle, does in fact, exist. I should note here that I am not one of those that think a large, ape-like humanoid or prehistoric sea beast have gone undetected for years. I do not believe in Bigfoot or Nessy, or mermaids or wee little Fairy folk - thought the actual existence of such things would make life much more interesting. Spirits however are a trickier lot to disprove, especially given my personal experiences. Whether it is the sudden, unmistakable smell of my grandfather's pipe or the faint sounds of a child's music box emanating from the attic, my normal phantoms remain welcome visitors. Their overtures have never made me feel threatened or fearful. On more than one occasion I have had the unique impression that my daughter was distracted by an interested specter, encounters that had her smiling and pointing, obviously delighted and not at all disturbed. Peering back over my shoulder to find she had been playing peek-a-boo with a vacant space of wall did ignite a rash of goose flesh but there was nothing fearful in the exchange. I am content with my normal phantoms. Incidentally, my jury is still out on alien life as well..space is simply too vast to discount the possibility we are alone here. I am a student of science and as such, I have confidence that the truth about alien lifeforms will be revealed eventually (hopefully not in any number of recent scenarios presented by Hollywood). Until then, I am confident at least that my spectral visitors come in peace. |
| The smell of the clove cigarette drifted across the wall of her senses awaking a long ago memory that slumbered like a dragon in the dark recesses of her mind. As she turned the corner, Elson saw the smoker, a scrawny teen perched on a ratty skateboard, a cellular phone tucked between his head and shoulder. As Elson passed by the teen, she inhaled the sweet smoke and the memory floated up with a clarity that was almost painful. Maya had loved clove cigarettes. She had purchased them in flat metal boxes and smoked the long, dark sticks with the dedication of a true addict. She wore their scent like a perfume and after kissing her, Elson’s tongue and lips would often be left with their tell-tale tingle. The doors of the library swung outward suddenly, and Elson had to jump aside to avoid the noisy wash of teens that flooded out onto the street. After they’d cleared, she pulled the heavy doors open and made her way to the reference stacks at the back of the building. The library was cool and dark. She preferred to work here rather than her tiny apartment downtown. The smells of the books and the soft swishing of the old microfiche machines were her muse. Elson tried in vain to finish her article for Rolay River Press on some local glassblowers but her thoughts kept drifting back to Maya. Pomegranates, those had been Maya’s other vice. She would buy them by the bushel then polish them off, one by one, her fingers prying free bloody seed after bloody seed and then sucking them into her heart-shaped mouth. The damp, eviscerated rinds had a bitter smell that, as much as the cloves, became a part of her signature scent. Clove cigarettes and pomegrantes, two things that could spirit her off to a time when her entire world was ruled by an olive-skinned pixie with twitching hazel pools. Maya had been her awakening and her ruin in barely the space of one calendar year. |
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