I am so incredibly foolish. I, am like a spoiled child that points to and gets whatever she wants, but then realises what she chose was not the best and will not bring her what happiness she thought awaited. In fact, against her better preminition, she made her poor choice from the origin-with an undercurrent of dispair in understanding that she would neither be the complete object of affection, but also the necessary distraction as well. So it has been proven once again that even though she understands exactly what her life entails in every fascet, she still stays her course for the rocky canyon, demise well in view. There is no hind-site 20/20-only preminition that may prove even more acute. I simply wait to fall, and hope I have the stamina to endure yet another broken tragedy of emotion. Even foreknowlege cannot stifle the pain of severed emotions. There is no deflection of entwined. The connection has been made. Guard is incapable of voiding the desparation of loss. I will be and am vunerable. I will be hurt once again, I am foolish and will suffer for it depend on that. I am not exempt.

Empowerment of "the pen"

Case in point. I got my mother a cell phone, because I didn't want her to be in trouble somewhere and no one is able to get help to her.

Guess how she uses it now...

She has always been known for "preaching" at others. She sends long letters to members of her family, polititions, and friends about what they need to be doing differently. It would be her favorite thing to do. Sitting for long hours writing, reading, re-writing and smugly satisfied--sending her literary masterpieces.

She has learned e-mail, and now...texting...

Yup, now my mother has been empowered to stew about a subject she has been offended about for hours at a time and then send it to her next favorite victim via text...

Obviously I have inhereted the craving for spewing thoughts and feelings in writing, but it has always humored me as to why on earth she can find nothing better to write about.

Here was a text my poor father received when he came by to check on me--"It was past my eating time (she is diabetic and has a crazy eating 'schedule' with her first meal around 4am and last around 5pm) so though I don't normally want a bagle. This morning I needed one, and that is why I asked you to get them out of the car. Don't worry, I will provide for myself from now on so you do not have to bring anything for me." (My dad waits on her hand and foot, because evidently diabetes affects your ability to fin for yourself.)

My dad stood there staring at the phone for a moment after reading it outloud, and then looked over his reading glasses at me and said, "She has really learned to text, you know?" Then he sighed deeply and called her back to smooth her ruffled feathers once again.

I said, "Now that would be nice, her providing for herself, eh?" with a twinkle in my eye. He grinned a clenched smile and replied, "Yessss, it would, wouldn't it?"

So, I hear bits and pieces of the ridiculous discussion about "bagles or no bagles" floating in from the kitchen. As usual, Dad has gotten her to relax and now changed the subject to help her move on. Wow, rituals of life, what a wonder.

I expect the subject will come up again at some point or other, it takes a while for the mountains built out of mole-hills to erode back into peaceful plains. There are just certain people who never should have learned to read and write...

I am told about a conversation with a friend about her man trying to meet up with some other chic at a bar. This is what he said about it:

"Yeah, she asked me what I thought. I asked her what he knew that she knew about the situation, and that it could be one of three things." He told me what he had told her.

It is only one...her man is a dumbass.

But then again, so are we--the ones who put up with it. Why, because
somehow, we think we have to. I don't know in what book is the "unwritten"
rule of "I am a wonderful person, and eventhough you take me completely
for granted, treat me like an old forgotten shoe, and elevate everything
meaningless to a higher level than me, I will stay right here, by your side
and you just come and go when you feel like it and whenever you want, okay?",
but that rule book should be burned.

I told my one of my dear friends, "You are eternal, yet he values paper more than you." when she told me of her man working so desperately to win a few hundred bucks in a contest. He has lost her almost completely, but he doesn't even put half the effort he did for the contest into his "love" for her he still claims to have.

There are a ridiculous amount of factors involved. Social pressure from family, financial enmeshment, kids, co-dependency, the ability to forgive too easily. However none of them are decent enough reasons to stay.

Yet there is a timing that is so elemental to survival of the beaten, and weary eh?

That is why women become like me. Very warm and caring, but no longer giving over every part of their life or love to anyone ever again. Hell, how can you give all your heart when chunks are missing? How can you make any decision that will affect your relationship with your children or your stitched up heart without fear and doubting? You can't. You just can't.

Every once in a while there is a sixth sense that tells me. "Be wary, be on your guard, take nothing for granted, and trust actions--not words."

I truely wish I could trust and give my whole heart again, but all I can do is offer what I have, and hope desperately I am not dissapointed yet again.

Friends with the enemy

I accept you as my friend, I recognize you only as the enemy. I am not unaware, you see I know better than you think. There is a 'deeper magic' as in the story, that does not change or go away.

You wonder why you return again. You think you've got it all under control, you have lots of 'friends', you have your lover too. You are safe. So you think. So you pretend.

Yet you recognize, as do I, that you "don't paint anymore" You only become alive under that stare, when you know there is recognition, that is when your art is born. Otherwise, it is stagnate, it is watered down, the colors are not as vibrant, the beauty doesn't come from joy. Even if you try, what is produced lacks the potency, talent is never lost, but it can be lacking.

I am an artist, I know true beauty, I know the strong and resounding poetry. I understand what's missing, but I won't let you steal my pleasure. I am happy in my moment, I ask you to stay content in yours. Do not chose to cross that border, for that 'deep magic' requires blood to appease it. Death is not pretty-no matter how it comes, or who it comes to.

Eventhough the recognition of true beauty brings out in me a weakness towards fighting, and a willingness to just give it over, I will make every effort to rally my greatest streangth and defend what I now call my own.

Realize what I know, admit your loss, now, relinquish hold friendly foe, relinquish hold.