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Andromache
30 April 2010 @ 11:19 pm
Here I am. On the last night before the wedding. A little drunk and alone. I sent Chris away to his brother's house, on the excuse that he can not see me before I walk down the aisle tomorrow. It's true. And it's not true. I think I need to bleed. He had to go away so I could let off some pressure. I have to vent this Thing that's building up somewhere under my ribs. I don't have the time, I didn't have the time. I had to go and do and make ready. I had to comfort. I had to go. I had to soften the news and speak clearly. I had to lie. I didn't have time to bleed.

There's all this grief. And too much anger. And I've been trying to let it out in small pieces. Then I'd try to shove it somewhere manageable. Ignore it. Scold it, throw it down the stairs and lock the basement door. I rolled the couch across the floor to bar the way.

Too many people are interested in my grief. In my apparent lack there of. I don't know what to say to them. We've been flooded with this unbearable pain, and I'm giving away large parts of myself so I can be light enough to float on it. I'm giving away my sense of goodness. I'm jettisoning stories and memories. I'm cutting my childhood off at the legs so that I was born last Tuesday. I can't float if he ever loved me. If I loved him and then he went away. Everyone else is letting themselves sink. They want to cling together so they can float, so they can survive. I understand why they want to reach out, why they want to grasp my arms and hold on to me: they want a human raft of comfort. But I can't tell them that I'll drown. I'm drowning. I don't know how to swim here, so their raft wouldn't help me. I'd try to hold them up, to make their comfort stronger, and my head would go under and that would be that. So calls go unanswered. Emails are unopened. I want to help them. I want to clean their houses and take them dancing, but I can't talk about It. I can't share. I can't let them drown me. I am, therefore, of no use to them at this point in time. I couldn't go to the funeral because of wedding obligations, but I could not bring myself to go to the viewing. I saw no logical reason to go. He wouldn't be there, he was dead. My faith and understanding of physics both dictate that him, the he that was, the energy which could be read by science or by God, had gone on. He would not be there. They wanted me to go and stare at his corpse and weep. I couldn't. I couldn't help them. I would drown.

How selfish of me. How very awful. What a terrible thing I've become. I'm not even human anymore. I've become something evil and selfish and unbalanced. I hate myself.

Here, have this; I don't want it anymore, and I can't float if I have it: there was a tree in a field in a place by a dam. There were never clouds at night, except when it stormed lightning and rained thunder, but not really even then because we were never there when that happened; and we knew that nothing existed if we were not there to see it. We made and unmade the world. We sometimes went to the tree when other things weren't fun anymore. Always at night, because there were never clouds at night, and we could see the lights from here to heaven. The view was best from the top, and, while neither one of us would even climb a step-stool at other times due to the great height, we were never afraid of anything when we were together. He was a better climber, even though he was, at that time, still soft with baby fat: his arms and legs were long and stronger than mine. I was not quick, even though I was, at the time, just soft enough to be a danger to men and some women: and still fit and young enough to run away laughing.

At the top of the tree the stars were bright enough to read by. We would tie ribbons to the upper branches. We'd give it bells and paper cranes. We'd talk about nothing and solve all the problems in the world. From there, he said, we could do anything. Be anyone. Live forever. The tree was joy, and the joy was secret. Enough joy would let us do anything. We could fly, he said, if we wanted to. We could step out of the tree and fly away. We never did. Not enough joy, maybe. Not enough belief. We talked about flying, and we knew, not in the trite, After-School-Special, fleeting type of knowing, but in the deep knowing that only needs acknowledged through a nod or a half smile, that if we ever learned how to fly it would be together. Other people might be there (other friends, lovers, reconciled family), but we would certainly be there together. It had to be the only way it could happen, couldn't it?

But then he went away.

Tomorrow I'm getting married. He was always going to be my man of honor. He was going to stand up with me, and share me with whomever it was I chose, so long as he thought I chose right. I'm having a great deal of trouble right now, because I can't say or do the right things. I am being a terrible bride. My mind is elsewhere and I can't feel anything. I'm numb and I'm not sleeping. I'm alone, halfway up a tree, and it's storming. I'm trying to shove It back down the basement stairs, trying to pull it together and be who everyone wants me to be right now. This is true.

It's also true that I'm screaming inside. Feeling everything. Every thing. Every day that I get closer to the wedding day, the screaming gets louder. It's raw and wordless. Every day that I get closer to being Chris' wife, I'm screaming like a chant, like a mantra. Sometimes it sounds like praying, but mostly I'm not trying to reach God, I'm trying to place the longest distance call ever in the history of communication. "Can you see me?" I'm screaming. Because I want him to know. I want him to know:

I found it.

Can you see me?

Can you see me?

I'm flying.


There. Take that. I don't want it any more. I have to float.
 
 
Andromache
21 April 2010 @ 05:06 pm
I have a friend, someone I love, mind, just so you get the proper idea of where I'm coming from: someone I love. He's about as interesting as a bag of frozen peas. And maybe, on a good day, twice as talented. As a bag of frozen peas. But O! Hero! O! Genius! Hailed, I tell you. Because he's so likable. It's a fucking gift. I want to say: "hey! Don't you notice the resemblance to peas? Frozen ones? Frozen peas which, I must add, are rapidly becoming soggy, mushy, unfrozen peas because of all these lights you have focused on him?" Now, now, Feather: hush. He's really, really likable. By god and by damn: impressively likable. And that will always trump talent. Or intelligence.

I used to be likable. You don't believe me, but you should. People thought I was sweet. I think I may have been. I kept my opinions, when I had them, to myself. I believed everything I was told. I loved without reserve and was not in the slightest afraid to tell people of my love. For them. For me. For rocks. Or a particular rock. Or whatever. I was sort of fluffy. Not really physically, I mean. Because I was devastatingly attractive at the time. I look at pictures and see it. I didn't realize at the time. I should have used it. I should have accepted it, and used it and owned it. I didn't think I was pretty until I was sure I wasn't and realized, too late, that someone probably should have told me back then that I was pretty then instead of telling me (years later and heavier and more tired and surely as unattractive as you can really get if you discount things which are uglier) "hey Feather: when you were younger I thought you were devastatingly attractive." Oh, fuck you. Little good it does anyone now.

So. I was likable. I'm not sure when the change came, but I'm not particularly there anymore. I'm certainly not her. She was fluffy.

Oh, Feather. Silly idiot.

BUT! As terrible as I am, as occasionally unlikable as I can be (and therefore running a distant fourth place to people who are frozen peas), I have never hurt anyone intentionally. That's something, isn't it. Isn't it? But, I have become aware of grim thinkings; so call them. I just received a wedding invitation. Funny, what with my invitations having gone out left and right not so long ago, to get one back in the mail. They're an airbrushed couple. A clean, aryan couple. Moneyed. (Geniuses. Frozen peas.) If this were a Fitzgerald novel, they would be secondary characters. I knew her a long time ago. Him I never really knew. Look how happy we are, look how happy we're going to be; it's what their perfectly straight white smiles are saying.

I want one of them to get scurvy.

In this day and age it wouldn't really hurt them. It would make them uncomfortable and embarrassed and put them out a little money clearing it up. Their scurvy, I mean. I would anonymously send them a basket of limes. They wouldn't get the joke. They would think someone was trying to be helpful. Joke's on me: maybe I really would be. Doesn't matter. Scurvy. Or gout. If not scurvy, then gout. That'd be good.

But, for all the ill-thoughts, I've never hurt anyone directly or intentionally or on purpose. That has to mean something. And I wouldn't hurt anyone without their consent. The problem is, more and more, I'm seeing signs of consent. Sheer, willful stupidity seems to be someone just begging to be had. Worshiping frozen peas (O genius! O hero!) seems to be to be just hanging out a sign welcoming abuse. But I won't. Because while it might give me temporary satisfaction, it wouldn't make me happy. Or happy-er. Happier.

Of course I'm happy! Feather: you're happy as a clam! Look at how important you are! And there is a man who loves you and will marry you! You are a paid and productive member of society, Feather! Look at your important work! Pay no attention to the tone. To what I'm saying. Look at how it bleeds: that's how you know I'm happy. If I was really hollow, I wouldn't bleed.

I am being metaphorical.

I am happy. Really, really I am. Because I have a sense of humor about it. About It. And I am my own frozen peas. Oh, how I wish you could see what a hero I am. What a genius. But don't tell me so, because I will disbelieve your sincerity and doubt my own claims. Don't tell me so, because I will be embarrassed and deny it. But tell me so, because I crave your adulation. Look at me. Look at me.
 
 
Andromache
07 March 2010 @ 06:43 pm
so.  
So. I was in the hospital for the last two weeks. i went in with severe abdominal pain which, after a ct scan, was diagnosed as diverticulitus. basically a very small food particle had become lodged in the wall of my intestines a bit of time ago and rotted; infecting my digestive tract. I was admitted and set on a course of serious antibiotics. no biggie. after being in the hospital for a few days (along the way discovering that i have an adverse reaction to the pain medication dilauded and also to morphine)i stood up to hobble to the bathroom and was knocked over by pain. I have never felt anything like it in my life. i remember very little of the following several hours, but i know it hurt, i know several people had to come hold me down, and i know the hospital contacted all my emergency contacts due to the severity of the situation. the doctors procrastinated but eventually decided a second ct was in order. on the new scan, it was discovered that my intestines had become perforated. I had a large hole in my colon. In some ways it was good to know that the pain had a reason. so i was rushed to emergency surgery, where several inches of my intestines were removed and some of the infection was pumped-out. then i was blessed with a colostomy. i have almost 100 staples in my abdomen. due to the location and severity of the problem, i was cut open from my sternum to my lady-bits. I am a freak show of epic proportions right at the moment. i get to live in this way for 8-12 weeks, and then i get another surgery to resection (stitch back together)my intestines and to remove the colostomy, after which another 8-12 weeks of recuperation and therapy is required. I am spending this first week out of the hospital at Jill's house. Jill is the woman my father is marrying in October. She is a nurse and lives in a ranch-style condo so that i can have all the care i require and i don't have to ttry to navigate stairs. Then i willl go to my mother's house as a second step of recovery. my mother makes a very good nurse and will hlep me heal enough to ba able to go home.

i know i'm supposed to thank god and the doctors and talk about how strong i am and how happy i am to be here and how grateful i am about having good healthcare and that sort of survivor crap. But right now i hurt all the time and am scared most of the time. my body is betraying me and i'm not dealing with it very well at all. i'm scared and gross and in pain. and i don't know what to do.
 
 
Andromache
31 December 2009 @ 07:32 pm
I'm waiting for Chris to get home. It's New Years Eve, and we are in the United States, so the inevitable and thoroughly idiotic gunfire has begun in fits and starts. Not as close to the house this year as in years past. I tell you fact: deciding to stay-in two years ago when I lived with Teej was a terrible idea. It was like Beirut in the early 1980's out there.

But that was then. Now there's a slushy, muddy snow on the ground and both dogs like to run around in it. So I let them in, and let them out and let them in and out and then back in. Along the way I have become cold and damp and muddy and miserable. So I took all my clothes off.

I'm NAKED!!!!

Naked naked naked naked naked naked naked!

And blogging!

I intend to go upstairs and put on something comfortable. Maybe something fleece-y. Something warm and loose and in which I can lounge or sleep or what ever I like, but which is also suitable for picking up pug poo or walking down the street to buy soda from the bodega.

I was dressed pretty nicely earlier. I looked about as good as I can, given my natural inability to look good. But I realized I have no one to impress, no where really to go, nothing that requires a little black dress. And no place where a little black dress would be appropriate.

So I'm NAKED!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is my life.

Nakednakednaked!

Nnnnnnnneckid'.

I'm really enjoying it. I should be naked more often.

But not on this couch. I think I'm offending the dogs.

I'll go put clothes on.
 
 
Andromache
08 November 2009 @ 08:46 am
It's not that I've left LiveJournal, it's that I have nothing to say. I've entered another phase where I don't find anything about my life or myself that is at all particularly interesting.

I feel old. I feel odd. I cut my hair too short and I'm starting to have the distressing habit of neglecting my social responsibilities. And that is all for me. Oh, I guess there's wedding stuff, but I'm third in line behind other people near me who are having weddings which are more interesting, joyful and closer in temporal proximity. No one want to read whom it was I booked to tend bar at the reception. I don't want to read that sort of thing, and I'm the one typing it.

It's not ennui or depression. It's just that I'm not really feeling anything other than alive. I am continuing to breathe and that's about it. No one wants a post like that: "haven't stopped breathing." Enter. Send. Or maybe they do. Life seems to be turning into Short Attention Span Theare. Twitter and Facebook and the like feeding interaction to us in over-simplified, bite-sized, and usually inconsequential portions that manages to be totally self-centered and completely without center all at the same time. The intellectual in me is offended. The cultural anthropologist that lives in the closet at the back of my mind is offended. It feels like our society is becoming stupider and stupider every day. Or maybe I'm just snobby and backward. That's possible, too. Perhaps I should get over my devotion to communication and ideas and spelling out whole words and just go with the flow. Be brief. Be unimportant. Be vapid.

Goin 2 brkfst w Mom. H8 drvin ovr thr. b bk l8r

Fuck.
 
 
 
Andromache
25 October 2009 @ 09:57 am
So in my illness I dragged my laptop upstairs to keep me company. I didn't use it much, and, now that I have recovered somewhat, still aren't using it much but also have not dragged it back downstairs yet. I had a really interesting idea a couple minutes ago and decided I would write about it before getting up and going to do laundry.

This is the part where I mention that every damn day I find a new reason to hate television. Like now. I never actually watched the show, but I saw enough advertisements to know that the horse-faced woman from "SEX IN THE CITY" did a lot of blogging from the comfort of her bed. She'd just roll over and type on her laptop, looking all tousled and whathaveyou and type something interesting (I assume.)

I, however, thought of something interesting, rolled over to type it into my laptop and squished a boob funny so I had to readjust and then realized the computer wasn't on so I had to boot it up and then my feet got cold so I had to find the blankets again which had fallen on the other side of the bed when I rolled over but couldn't find them because my hair was a frightful, ratty mess from sleeping and not the tousled mess that I was promised via television it would be and then the computer booted but I seemed to still be laying incorrectly so I rolled around for a minute trying to find a body/bed agreement but by then I had totally forgotten the interesting thing I was going to write, so instead I wrote about stupid things like squished boob and how much I hate TV and it's dirty, filthy lies.

And, for the record and while we are on the lies of television, my Mrs Butterworth syrup has never spoken to me. Not once.

I'm going to go do laundry now.
 
 
Andromache
22 October 2009 @ 10:37 am
On day three of my inability to speak or move with any authority. Still sick. Feverish. It's weird. I never get sick. Not like this, anyway.

Well, while I'm nailed to the couch I'm catching up on horror films I should have seen years ago. USA network is a great one for that, especially in October when most basic cable station seem to feel it's their duty to show inexpensive horror movies from about five or so years back. In the last few days I've seen HALLOWEEN 5 more times than I'd like to admit. Right now I'm watching FRAILTY. Good, sweet mamma-jamma: this is a fucked-up flick. It reminds me a great deal of a short story by Neil Guiman (or however he spells his name) about VanHelsing's sons. Only extra fucked up. Next up on the schedule seems to be THE SKELETON KEY, which promises to be much sillier and with more traditional jump-y parts.

I really love horror genre stuff. These movies are extra fun. It's like riding a roller coaster: scary, but part of you knows you're safe; so you can just sit back and enjoy the rush. And the doubt that you really are safe at all.

Plus there is the touch of legend to horror films. They all come up with their own logic, their own mythos. It's closer to the original type of story telling than any other sort of movie. It's oral tradition. Even if you haven't seen the movies, you know about Michael Meyers. These are morality tales. They're historical record, in a way. The movies of the time catalog the specific fears of the time. What were they scared of in the fifties? Watch their horror films. The aliens represent difference and change, someone coming in to destroy the ideal of mom and apple pie. Et cetera.

Or maybe I'm on too much cold medicine.

Huh. This movie is messed up. And much better than I thought it would be.
 
 
Andromache
21 October 2009 @ 10:19 am
meh.  
My cold has reached the phlegm-y and surreal portion of its progress. I can't sleep but I'm not particularly awake, my cough has dropped to the bottom of my lungs... and I'm apparently overly emotional. I've been playing with Hulu a great deal over the last couple of days and have discovered a thing called "Glee." It's probably not something I should be watching. Especially in my current weakened state. I don't really want to get into it, but I only recently regained my ability to breathe after a crying jag brought on by Stereotypical Gay Character kicking an unlikely field goal after a musical dance number.

I shall say no more on the subject and will thank you to do the same.

I know I'm a little better than yesterday. No fever anymore, but my equilibrium seems a tetch iffy. The cough is worse but the headache is better. I'm not contagious anymore (if this is a normal type of cold) but I'm tired and therefore not sure if I should go to the stitch and bitch tonight or just stay home and try to sleep. Or I could sleep at the stitch and bitch. I'm sure it won't be the first time a woman has fallen asleep over her knitting.

Oy. Enough. The dogs want out and I should shower. What is it about illness that makes the desire to bathe increase tenfold. I suppose it could be something about the sweating and mucus and such. Ew. Pretend I said nothing.
 
 
Andromache
19 October 2009 @ 07:49 pm
feh.  
Sick now. Sort of. Almost. Fever and sore throat. And a headache. I'd normally just ride it our, but I know two people with mono and there's all that bird/pig/bear/cat/frog/hippo flu stuff going around, so I'm off tomorrow and hoping to see a doctor in the afternoon. Of course, I'm also hoping the dirt fairy will show up and clean my house. And that a "money tree" isn't just a trite and over-used metaphor. So we'll see.

In other news, I have a new secret boyfriend. Excuse me, a Secret Boyfriend. You know, a dude you know that you think is dreeeaaaamy but one or the both of you is unavailable and you don't like-like him you just like him and think he's dreeeaaamy? And you're too old to call it a "crush?" That Secret Boyfriend. I'm considering telling his wife that I've daydreamed about leaping upon him like some frothy puma.

Nah.
 
 
Andromache
09 October 2009 @ 05:14 pm
So, two of the four (maybe five) reviews for the show came out today. They were both "meh" reviews. Three-of-five stars. One thumb up. That sort of thing. I have the terrible position of being both in a show which got half-panned and of (oh lord and saints watch over us) agreeing with everything those reviews said.

I'm a terrible person.

It's not that I hate the show or hate the theatre or the people or anything. I have no hate. There is no hate here. No. Hate. A great deal of love, in fact. So much love that I can see something for what it is and love it anyway, as opposed to loving my idea of something that might someday be. Or something. Look, I've just been saying for months that the script had problems, the show went on too long, and our lead had some problems with the drama, him being a comedic actor and all. And that's preeeeety much what they said, too. I also agree that all the technical aspects are spectacular and the supporting cast a dynamo of cheerful and unflinching awesomeness, which is ALSO what the reviews said. Basically.

So now I have to sigh and suck it up. I must stand and strap on my helmet and go to the theatre for the show tonight and lie my fat Irish ass off. Feign indignation at what MUST be an insult to ourselves, the theatre and to our collective mothers, disguised as a so-so theatrical review. Or I couls just awknowledge that I saw them and say nothing. Not join the conversation. I could do that,too.