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Nine Octobers

Nine years ago in September, I told the guy I was dating that I wanted to break it off. He wasn’t serious enough.

Nine years ago in October, I told that same guy that being unserious with him was better than being serious without him. We got together to watch Quarantine, and resumed our occasional dating.

F201310_WedRob_130our years ago in October, I married that guy. He walked side by side with our little boy that day; I carried our second little boy inside me.

Four days ago, this October, I took a day off work to watch a horror movie with that guy. My husband. My Anthony.

We watched It. Both of us yelped at least twice. It reminded me of that day nine years ago, getting back together-ish with him over Quarantine.

October with Anthony, man.

I wouldn’t miss it.

Anthony hasn’t worked steadily in his chosen profession for a couple years. To him, on some level, this means he hasn’t really worked. Read more…

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cherish

as i pulled into 
my driveway, i saw
one of my neighbors
basking in the sunshine
on her front porch,
with a dog on
either side
of her

“heya,”
i called
as i opened
the driveway gate

she told me
that she’s feeling
a little pain, but that
the sunshine helps
in more ways
than one, so:

she can’t
complain

i paused,
and said,
“you know,
i just had a really
great conversation
with anthony, and i’m
just so grateful for
him … i’m with you.
i really can’t
complain”

i’d already
planned on
sharing (a little) about
anthony and neighbors,
so the timing of this
exchange was
perfect

earlier,
as anthony and i
talked, i asked if he’d
be okay with
this one
thing

(which
might
prove
aggravating)

he laughed.
“you know me.
i can put up with
almost anything.
i can’t say i’ll be
all sunshine, but
i’ll be okay”

we talked about
how people mistake
his very long fuse for
absence of fuse, with me
explaining how my sister
rache taught me that
the fact someone
has a long fuse
and peaceable
demeanor
doesn’t
mean
they’re
meek

(a lot of people
make that mistake)

i thought about
this one post 
i wrote on
l2sp;
how
anthony
surprised me,
and reminded me:
i no longer have
to fight every
fight alone

i’m sharing
that post here
tonight, but with a
caution: while the first
part was all about
anthony, the
second was
me raging
about
white
people

i’m done 
raging at 
individual
people,
done
done
done,
i do
solemnly
vow Read more…

for better and worse

My husband,
and I
recently took
one last trip to Legoland
before we let our annual passes lapse

(Much as I enjoy
Legoland, I already spend
too much time driving on
the weekdays to drive
more, routinely, on
weekends)

It was Anthony’s birthday,
and I spent much time
that day thinking how
grateful I am that he
was born, and that
our paths crossed,
and that he is such
a loving father to
our boys

There was another
gratitude, too

Recently,
I have seen
what it looks
like
when one
partner doesn’t
like the way the
other is growing
and changing;
the little digs
and pushes
and scowls
that say,
“You’re not
supposed to
be like this. You
are supposed to
stay how I know
and like you,
meeting my needs
in exactly the ways
you always have,
whether or not
that meets

yours

As I watched
Anthony with our boys,
I heard the dozens of
different ways he’s
told me he doesn’t
expect me to
remain the same,
and appreciates
what I’m trying to
change, and
why

He sees the love
behind my sorrow-
fueled rages, and sees
how the balance is
shifting away from
rage and toward
love

He knows I’m changing;
I couldn’t be unchanged
by all I have read
about centuries of
cultivated devastation
driven by colonizers seeing
(and portraying)
“the other” as
simply a roadblock
to obtaining more,
and more,
and more

(He knew
about these things
long before I did)

So he sits with me
as I say things like
,
“Oh, my god, people
in drought and famine
exchanged their kids
because they couldn’t
eat their own;
others, too weak
to fight were carried
off by jackals
and the like,
and it would
never have been
that way if colonizers
cared more for building
structures to protect people
than extracting from them
everything capable of
extraction”

and he hugs me,
and says I should not
forget the beautiful things,
too; that acts of courage and
defiance abundant but too
small individually to
make it into
history
books,
were just as
real, and can be
just as real today
when those things
are celebrated and
cultivated over mourning
that looks like
rage

I am changing;
more than being
passively okay
with that,
Anthony actively supports me,
nudging me back toward
compassion (and occasional
fiction reads, because,
he rightly says,
no one’s life is
improved by
reading all political
history, all
the time)

I see
how it doesn’t have
to be this way; how easy
it is for some to say, “when I
said ‘for better or for worse,’
I meant ‘for,
forever,
exactly
the
same'”

I see that,
and I see
Anthony,

and I am
grateful
for how
the love
of my life
accepts
all of me,
as we grow,
(for)
better
and
worse

After reading this,
Anthony said, “It’s
weird seeing my name
so many times; usually
it’s just ‘Daddy,
Daddy, Daddy'”

He’s half correct:
he is usually
“Daddy,” but never
“just” that

from where my husband stands

wedding bwA couple of months ago,
I wrote of my husband
that the best thing
I ever did
“was marry
that
sweet
man”

(This continues
to be
the
case)

A few days ago,
he said something
that helped me
understand so much more
than all the books
in the world
could

I can’t remember
his words, or even
the exact context, but
what he said made
clean-water-clear
why I was
so angry
and he was so …
not

A Black man 
grown up in Compton,
he never had illusions
that colonialism or
empire were dead,
or that they were
(ever)
only extended by
the evil hearts
of evil people

He saw
people as they were
and loved them for
who and where
they were,
trusting they were
doing the best they could
with where they
were coming from

I didn’t have that

I “escaped” poverty
and abuse and a
million poverty-
invited horrors
I’ll never forget
no matter what
my salary
reaches;

Having “escaped,”
I saw bad guys
(molesters; wife-
beaters)
and good guys
(everyone
else)

Having “escaped,”
I surrounded myself
with good guys
and, voila!

All was well

Except,
of course,
it wasn’t

And I was
affronted,
shocked, 
horrified 
to learn as
I read (on
the U.S.’s
genocidal global
politics) that
they we were
far less good
(as measured
by outcome, not
squishy, vague,
offered-as-exculpatory
“well-meaning”)
than I’d seen

The feeling
I experienced:
betrayal, at a
whole world
(and worldview)
destroyed

But that’s
not the point here:
I get what happened,
and whether anyone
else does or does
not get it isn’t
that
important

The main thing here
is this:

Seeing the world, now,
closer to how it really is,
I can see from where my
husband has always stood,
and I think …

I’m almost there:

Seeing
people as they are
and loving them for
who and where
they are,
trusting they are
doing the best they can
with where they
are coming from

Poop slippers, pictorally

Last night, I wrote about winning the real prize at yesterday’s office holiday party: poop slippers. I forgot to include the picture in last night’s post, so here it is:

image

As I picked up my phone to post the picture above, I saw another picture worth taking and sharing.

Since I’m “making my SoCal husband cold,” he’s using his old Cthulhu hat to keep his head warm.

image

In a house full of morning people, one stands the lone night owl. Which one, hmm?!

Everything about this tickles me!

Happy weekend, y’all.

Categories: Family, Nerd, Silly Tags: , ,

Prescribing Joy: Wild Is The Wind (2)

Anthony (And now and then an elephant all in white.) is my husband. He’s infuriating and delightful. I love him, else I wouldn’t have married him … even though he was on Survivor (gag!) and marrying him involved marriage (gag!, or so I thought, until I married him).

prescribing joy

Wild Is The Wind (2)

We all spend so much time
trying to find happiness in the world
that we are blinded to it
sitting there
like so much dross on a dusty shelf,
when there is gold to be found
in the everyday,
in the mundane,
in life:

The smell of fresh cut grass on a summer day
The smell of the dust, just as it starts to rain;
The laughter brought on a truly terrible,
ill timed fart;

The satisfaction of rescuing
that one piece of meat that’s
been stuck between two back molars
for the better part of the day,
after Sunday Brunch,
having only used the dexterity of your tongue,
and creative suction;

Home improvement shows;

Finishing the final brush stroke,
on a set of miniature fantasy soldiers
just as the movie you had playing in the background
resolves its audible crisis, rolls credits,
and plays music to exit a theater by;

Your dog coming over to you,
unbidden
on your lowest day,
and putting his head on your knee;

A kiss on your cheek in the middle of the night
from your love,
followed by a half murmured comment to
someone in a dream,
followed by stolen covers and soft snores;

A half naked child waking you up at 3:41 am
on a Tuesday morning,
to find solace in the warmth
that is buried somewhere
deep within the cavity of your nose–
so deep that only a child’s foot can free it;

Twenty-Five undisturbed minutes in the bathroom;

Handwritten correspondence in the mail,
your name scrawled across the front;
Clearing off a long littered desk;
A good cup of coffee;

Driving home in loud silence
after an overwhelmingly
Not Quiet day;

An Ice cold glass of water on a fall morning;

The moment of removing
sock, then shoe,
sock, then shoe,
and then flexing your feet;

Putting on a clean pair of jeans
that you’ve not worn for weeks,
putting your hand in the pocket
and finding a five dollar bill;

Hugs, and smiles, and laughs,
and memories of baby teeth;
tiny toes on children;

Music, played too loud,
from car speakers,
with the windows rolled up,
so no one hears your singing along badly to
Counting Crows,
Tony! Toni! Tone!
The Clash
L.L. Cool J
La Traviata;

Going to bed tired,
laying your head down on a cool pillow
and letting sleep devour you,
one molecule at a time,
only to have that one moment,
that singularity
of knowing the answer is–

Crying, sometimes;
Laughter;
Stillness;

Sitting on the porch,
on any given afternoon,
watching people going about their day,
their ordinary day.

Eyes looking at you with love;
and watching them close,
and flutter to sleep;

So many little things,
lying around our world
like so many wild horses
waiting to carry us off,
(holding on for dear life,)
cackling like school children
overflowing with tiny
triumphant
joy.

last : Reading Dreams | Casting On : next

The 40s track

“You’re on the 30s track, aren’t you?” my six-year-old asked of my age yesterday.

Laughing, I agreed I am. Nodding toward my husband, I added, “And he’s on the 40s track!”

A little later, I couldn’t help but notice how the 40s track suits him.

image

I’m already looking forward to his 50s track.

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