Bugs

It is November 18, 2009

Some crazy little Mexican doctor thinks my temperament is too high, he thinks I should be regulated. I’ve been too emotional for everyone’s comfort – even my own. The only people not raising a cry from me are Jodie (we just don’t talk) and … that’s it. So I can not react to hurt and pain only if I avoid someone? That’s insane.

So if I’m included in this discomfort, then it only makes sense to take a damn pill. So there you have my opinion of it, the damn pill. Said it twice. Do I want to be in pain, crying, dejected, or do I go it real? I can't make out the difference. So I’ll take the pill. What makes a person cry? Constantly? A high temperament apparently, whatever the hell that means.

Someone who had visited the town once asked how I survived Muscatine … with the projectile-vomiting people at Holiday Inn or that sickening smell that continuously blows from Kent? Or the millions of fucking bugs! And I read these things, and I figured something out (Yes, Something wants out.) I went from millions of fucking bugs to millions of fucking people. I can’t handle anything in the millions! What an enormous realization! I need a fucking mountain.

(Stay off my punctuation. I hear things differently.)

the pen salesman

After much long, arduous thought, I now know that I should have married that pen salesman. Finding the exact pen takes years. The ink must flow from its well in a precise rhythm. The circumference must fit neatly between my woman's thumb and index finger. And for anyone who understands what I'm talking about: it must slide across the paper at a precise speed: slow, steady, soft. You think I'm joking. I assure you, I am not.

I can't find any damn pens this morning. Something is shaking my bones. I went to bed at midnight, woke at 1:30, and rose at 5:19. I'm all juiced up with strong coffee, ready to take on the bills, the blown-off writing moment, the emails to people I'm not really sure care to hear from me that much. Or-gan-iz-ation. Ready. I can't find a pen, not even a bad one.

If I had only married that pen salesman. He would buy me boxes from his company at low, unheard of prices. I would wait in the fat brown chair in the living room; he would walk in with a box; he would spill the pens on the floor, smile and say, "Honey. I'm home." I would drop to my knees, and I would inspect them carefully making sure I didn't get a second.

Maybe then I would be a real writer ... if I owned a thousand good pens.

I've never met a pen salesman. But I'm thinking that would have been good.

if i die before i wake

There's a little you don't know about me ... I worry that I'm a speck, an etcetera. I don't believe I have a set day to leave the planet. I have to stay out of the middle of the road. I believe I came from the ocean and I keep returning; I cry sometimes, afraid I can't stay. The first thing I do in the morning is take a deep breath of the sea and it feels like the most oxygen I've ever had. Ever. You should know that my kids are everything. They are sweet purple grapes and freshly mowed grass; big smiles and twinkly eyes; hot buttermilk biscuits and sleepy-morning Sundays. My heart filled up from little kid hugs and "I-love-you-mommy-kisses" I'm so proud of each of them - I hope we will be great friends, always.

I'm terribly lonely and it seldom goes away. I cry sometimes, afraid it won't go away. I miss my kids. They are my friends. I wish my mom was happier. I love my husband and I worry because he drifts when he's driving. I want to be a better swimmer. Wild ginger is my favorite scent. I survived the road to Hana. If I could do it over, I wouldn't have had knee surgery. I like anesthesia. I wish I could live forever and just have good naps. I was a fast runner in elementary school. I like to be Arizona-desert hot and then jump into an ice-cold pool.

I hate driving. I want to be driven.