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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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chips and sadness
Right now, I should be clearing off my desk which is under a pile of crap (half-empty Triscuit box left over from a late night study session, a cup of coffee with cream that has become my own little microbial garden, last semester's notes and texts, thousands of pens, pencils, highlighters, markers, 3x5 cards, a small vase full of dead flowers from Max, dirty clothes, and lots of other crap) in anticipation of the first day (tomorrow) of school. Instead, I am at Max's desk (also disgustingly dirty) whining about my dirty desk (also, intermittently eating from a bag of Ruffles (BIGGER RIDGES! BETTER FOR DIPPING) Original Potato Chips). The chips: The chips were bought in a grocery store (CityMarket?) in Colorado day before yesterday because I needed a snack, but they remained unopened because we (we: Max, MaxMom, Me) also bought Cheetos (crunchy, though puffed are also nice) and ate those in the car. We were shopping for various things to make dinner with: garlic, peas, yogurt, hot dogs. The hot dogs: MaxMom uses them to give the dogs their medicine. We were going to cook Indian food. Which M and MM did while I napped, I was so exhausted that I couldn't keep my eyes open (though they were open long enough to help make rose-scented creme brulee for dessert). This is a useless entry. I'm not saying what I want to say, which is tied to getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, sitting on the toilet which is next to an undressed window, looking out at the glowing snow, beginning to cry uncontrollably, but quietly, as M lay sleeping in the guestroom. I leaned against the cool doorknob and cried, there was so much sadness in me and in the house, too. Maybe it was the snow, which I am unused to, which frightens me. Maybe it was that I wasn't home when I should have been. Maybe it was that the house is infused with this horrible and overwhelming sense of futility that originates with MM and which I couldn't keep from creeping in on me. On the way into town, down the snowy driveway, a large buck pausing while he crossed in front of the car, looking at us as if he knew us from somewhere, not figuring out from where, and moving on to join his group which had gone up the hill ahead of him. Going slowly on the icy roads, studded tires droning out the conversation before it could reach me in the backseat, MM saying that too much adaptability is unhealthy; I disagreed, tried to say why, and stopped the conversation. Early morning, at the kitchen table drinking coffee while MM made waffles, she quietly telling me about her childhood and trauma and divorce. M entering the room stops her and I compose a letter in my heart to send later to her (and him) that I am not going to act as their mediator, as any kind of go-between between them. They're not my feelings. They're not my memories. She's not my family, and I'm not linked to them. In fact, I can only face M's family by not caring about them, they were so hurtful towards me in the past. I want to yell at her for being such a wimp all her life; I want to keep her influence out of my relationship with M (but all without denying him contact with her and his family). We had a very late Indian supper of samosas, rice, dal, tumeric broccoli, chai, wine, and saved dessert for the morning.
More lies:
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