absolute silence

Silence frightens me.

Music must play, a window must be open allowing the birds' songs and the wind's whisper (or roar, if we speak of this past week) to fill my silent spaces. I am selective about the sounds surrounding me; if they drone too much or are too interruptive, they will not be tolerated.

Snoring has long been an unacceptable nocturnal silence substitute. As I child I dreaded family trips because we would all stay in one motel room and I could never sleep due to the severe snoring issues my father seemed to suffer. Ever since engaged, I have rarely been able to sleep in the same bed as my husband, likewise due to his snoring. This has found me sleeping the majority of the marriage, until separation of bedrooms, on the sofa; in hotels, in the bathroom on the floor or out in the car; and in Sweden in the TV lounge of the apartment building. Some say that snoring, as one becomes accustomed to the partner they love, comes to sounds like the sea. I have yet to find that appreciation for such midnight sounds.

When in my home music reaches to almost every corner, especially when I am alone. I grew up in a home where music always played from an old phonograph stereo of my grandfather's, that still to this day is functional. The apparatus through which the music flows doesn't matter now; I must have music playing.

The sound of human voices is also comforting to me. Most comforting is when they are calm, controlled conduits of peaceful coexistence. Now that my children are older and conversant, it is a pleasure to have two intelligent beings in my company that I can teach to opine and to effectively express their thoughts, and let them teach me so much as well.

Yesterday was a silent day, but in a very different and eerie way. I went to the gym in the morning and had a wonderful workout, but nobody spoke to me and neither did I speak to anyone else. Normal for my gym. I returned home and my children were awake, downstairs in His part of the house, watching Saturday morning cartoons. I showered, prepared breakfast, and put myself hard to work on editing my book. That lasted all day, without a single word exchanged with any other human being. I had my Saturday programming on through NPR, but those voices were not speaking on a conversational level with me, personally. It was a radio broadcast.

The sun rose and fell, and it was not until 8:00 last night that I spoke with anyone but my cat. The silence--I must accustom myself to this silence on my weekends without the children. Even if I leave the house, I am often surrounded by impersonal silence as so many in public are engrossed in their own worlds they don't even excuse themselves if they bump into me when dialing or texting on their Crackberries. Sure, sound abounds, but taking the form of the normal drone of daily life, shopping, cell phone conversations--almost anything is more interesting than what is being lived now, or the avoidance of certain silences for fear of having to figure out how to fill those spaces, or fear of having to interact with others outside a comfort zone.

Perhaps I see silence as an abyss. Many see silence as a refuge. How do you see silence?

Flashback Friday

I despise Valentine's Day.

For adults, that it. As a manifestation of feeling between children, it is cute...until later in elementary school when all but the "unpopular" girls get bubble gum on their Valentines and all others merely get a Jolly Rancher, probably left over from Halloween. Watching the popular girls in high school and uni get roses, teddy bears and balloons as a visible, colorful demonstration of adolescent feelings while the rest of us sat back, wishing, dreaming that perhaps, one day, our Valentine's Day would be so decorated, just like a fairy tale...

It creates in us a rather unhealthy expectation, one that has yet, in 36 years of Valentine's Days, to be fulfilled for me.

I no longer live under that delusion, as I have come to see in my mid-20s that I am just not the kind of girl who would ever warrant that kind of attention. However, those I feel very badly for are the Japanese. And WE thought romance was dead! Again, we have nothing on the Japanese there. Valentine's Day in the Orient was quite an experience for this idealistic young person, and that is today's Flashback Friday post for you. Enjoy!

V-day in Japan

Valentine's Day is not celebrated quite in the same way in Japan as it is elsewhere. It is merely a day during which women shower men with gifts of food, chocolate, drink and superficial shows of appreciation, perhaps crushes and/or love.

Women do not receive anything on this day. Instead, a mere obligatorily "reciprocation" and acknowledgment of the given gift of chocolates is granted the woman on March 14, called "White Day".

She will instead receive gifts of soaps, shampoos and body scents.

Bah.

Does this mean to say the men think that we stink?

Why do they get the chocolate and we get body scents?

Yet another reason to boycott the whole day, in my humble opinion.

Oh, and pass the wine. And, um, don't you DARE forget the chocolate.
(Soy-free, of course.)

power-off, shut-down

That is what I think happened to me last night.

It was a night I needed a bitch session, and She-ra, as always, was willing and able. And I flaked.

Actually, what happened was I had a vertigo attack that lasted a good 15 minutes, that had me holding onto the handles of my refrigerator for dear life, until I could get to my bedroom and lay down. And then I fell asleep.

Power-off, shut-down.

Yesterday was the Passport Appointment day. The last time I had to do a passport from scratch, not a renewal, was actually done by my parents when I was 17. I remember going to the post office and getting the paperwork completed. I called and made the appointment, got all documentation prepared, photographs taken and checks written ("Bring two separate checks," I was told. Of course--two kids, two separate checks. Makes perfect sense.) and all organized, birth certificates attached with colored paperclips inside my manilla folders in which I seemingly organize my entire life.

Actually, I just do that to *appear* organized and professional, when we all really know better.

Anyhow...

Princesita and I walk down, while He and Young Prince drive. We get there and soon after they arrive. Right when we are to be called back, He says, "Young Prince had another major meltdown in school today."

Always known for his impeccable timing, I thought, as we were ushered back into the entrails of the postal facility.

I was then chastized, when we sat down, for not bringing blank checks and two separate checks each. Eternally on the defense, I pointed out that, on the phone she had only told me to bring two checks, and as I have two children...well, logic dictates what I will do. She did NOT say that two separate fees to two separate facilities, one being the Department of State and the other being the USPS, would need to be done in two separate payments.

Great. I retorted by suggesting, strongly, that she next time tells the client exactly what it is she wants us to bring rather than assuming we understand what "two separate checks" means. "Two separate blank checks per person" would have been correct. Then she asked if I had a debit card, which I do not. Then she asked about my husband. Of course he has no idea what is in his pocket, he just carries around whatever he always carries. Then, the question that has dictated the past 10 years of marriage: "So what do you want me to do?"

"Can you get the checkbook?" I snapped. I was admittedly snappy. When I prepare for an appointment then am told I prepared wrong, I get pissed off when not given the correct information in the first place.

"Which one"

"What do you mean, which one? THE Checkbook."

"Yours or ours?"

Um...pause here. Yours or mine? I just got my checkbook in December and have written two whole checks with it. It is not out in a public place; it is hidden in my room, in the same drawers as is hidden my purple bunny-eared joystick (with pearl action).

So, trembling with ire, I say, "The ONLY checkbook you need to concern yourself with."

"Where is it?"

Dude.

"On the table."

"The table?"

"Yes, the table."

"What table."

"THE table."

"WHAT table?"

"THE FUCKING DINING ROOM TABLE" is what I wanted to say, but I left out the explitive and I think he got the message. Ms. Post Office manager was silent.

When he returns in a few minutes, he spits at me, "So what, are you going to flee the country with the kids?" He obviously practiced that line all the way home and all the way back.

I spat back a "No" and let the stunned Ms. Post Office manager continue her duties. When she left, I turned around and He started, "This isn't about us, it's about them. It's about the kids. Even Young Prince in school..."

And I interrupted, "Excuse me, I didn't mean to be rude. I was told one thing and completed what I was told to do, and then get here and was told I did that wrong. You should know by now how impatient I get with those who can't tell me exactly what they want then throw it back in my face when I get it wrong. So I got snappy and I'm sorry," I whispered so the lady in the next cubicle couldn't hear.

I am fully aware of what I do wrong and I apologize when I am out of line.

*---*

This past week or so has really made manifest to me how much my life is on standby, and has always been, for Him. I can make a list of the history throughout the marriage of my compromise and my needs put on standby for Him, but I'll refrain. It is, now, to the point of having to be on standby for my morning shower...it all depends on when The Spirit moves Him to get his ass out of bed and into the shower, which is not the same time no two days of the week. I get a couple hours notice at best if he's taking the kids for dinner. Granted, Mondays are his nights with them, but as he somehow feels that he can schedule his counseling appointments for Monday afternoons and that I will be around to watch the kids, I usually just end up (planning and) feeding them anyway. My life is on standby due to this standby deployment...which there is 1/6 chance it will NOT happen, of course. I don't feel steps ahead can be realistically taken until this ends...when I can have a place for him all set up for when he returns, utilities on and in his name, dishes and furniture moved in--because Lord knows he will not do it himself. I would like to make my summer vacation plans to visit my family, and that is on standby until I know if and when he'll leave.

Maybe I should make my plans and tell him to plan his Hawaii trip with the kids around MY plans for a change. But I have a hard time doing that. Why? I'm not sure. I'm not thick-skinned enough to stand up for taking myself off standby.

With all this growing resentment, while knowing exactly what he went and told his counselor yesterday post-passport appointment, I think my shut-down button pressed itself and I went into power-off mode. I slept, awoke, then slept through the night until 4:30 a.m.

The vertigo is slight today and I am maintaining myself both hydrated and well-fed. I think I'm just stressed out, and even running four miles this morning hasn't taken that out of my system. If I could find time I would love to join a dance studio or do yoga again--but not as before as I prefer not to be hit-on again by a narcissist. That stresses me out, too.

I just want to be me, but I feel like that is on standby as well.

the flame

Fire is power.

I am equally fascinated by the flame of a tealight or taper as I am with a campfire. For hours I can sit, engrossed in the observance of patterns of light, of figures my imagination conjures from the graceful dance of the flame. Fire has the power to capture my attention and to allow me to move into another state of consciousness.

Sunday nights in my childhood home were bath nights. My sister and I would take our baths together, akin to how my children currently co-bathe, and once dried and jammied, we would sit in front of the fire that Dad had built in the fireplace and let our locks dry. First the back, then the front. I loved doing my front last as I could close my eyes, let the heat melt into my face and transport myself into pre-dreamland, which soon awaited after our hair had dried. Some nights we begged Dad to put a spoonful of chimney cleaner into the fire, which created a colorful dance of light and my sister and I would yell out the different hues we would see, pointing and jumping enthusiastically at this miracle of light.

I was fascinated by how a heavy log could be consumed down to ashes that crumbled in my hand after being licked by the flame for an entire evening. It wasn't until later that I came to realize that fire is alive. It eats, breathes, excretes and, in how humans use it as a representation of ire, passion and warmth, it seems to feel. This realization deepened my fascination into a respect for fire's power.

When in a tiny, cold Catholic church in Sweden, that lacked of electricity and heat, I was given a tiny taper to hold after trudging through two feet of snow to arrive at Mass. Unable to concentrate due to the deep, bone-reaching cold I felt, I chose to stand instead of sit on the cold bench. I removed one glove and warmed my fingertips over the flame of that candle. I don't remember a thing said in Mass that night; I only remember the warmth that tiny flame gave my fingers and I was grateful.

I light a candle in my bedroom almost every night. I rarely have time to sit and simply stare at the show anymore, but somehow the knowledge that this fire burns next to my bed, safely enclosed in a hurricane holder, not only fills my room with the lovely scent of burning candle but also gives me a feeling of power, of capability and of mind force.

When extinguishing this flame before sleeping, I used to feel a sadness, almost that I took the life of this powerful energy source. I now revel in the smell of the trail of smoke that is left behind, remembering all I felt thanks to that flame and allowing my night to end and my dreams to begin.

What does the flame mean for you?

the mirror

Mirrors have always fascinated me.

When a child, Mom and Dad (note the teamwork represented in my memory of facts) installed sliding mirror doors on our closets in all of the bedrooms in the house. I would sit in front of that sliding piece of vanity-inducing goodness for hours, often merely playing solitaire, a long-time favorite choice of personal entertainment. Or I would pretend to be a rock star.

This set-up proved most valuable when there were two teenage daughters in the house; instead of dominating the bathroom, our precious hair-care routine took place in our individual rooms.

My parents were so smart! However, the fact I could see my entire body when getting dressed did not assist me much in putting together ensembles that did not completely clash. After having taught those ages in a completely different culture than my own, I have come to decide that is a developmental stage, so-called color and pattern blindness and the desire to have one's own style not dictated to by anyone else.

That was Me.

I remember the night my maternal grandmother died. We got The Call at 2 a.m. and never went back to sleep. Nobody did. A major heart attack claimed my 62 year old Grandma in the middle of the night. (Yes, I am wearing red this coming Friday. Please join me.) I sat up the rest of the night, listening to the screaming anguish of my mother, my father making seemingly endless phone calls, lamp on, door cracked but not entirely closed (we had a no-closed door policy in my house; cracked was fine, no firm closure permitted), shuffling cards, listening to KTMT. Tears for Fears' song "Shout" must have been Billboard's #1 that week; it played all day long and every time I hear that song to this day I am carried back to that day when I sat in front of my mirror doors, playing Klondike or Four Aces or Clock or 13 pyramid...whatever...and watched myself cry and cry silent tears while Mom screamed the pain of her soul out. I was fourteen.

Mirrors later became an obsession. If there were anything into which I could catch a glance of my reflection, I would search it out to ensure hair was in place, the little make-up I wore was okay, nothing in my teeth; I had my secret checklist that would be fulfilled in car windows, oven doors and glass picture frames.

Undoing this vain practice has proved difficult. Even at an age in which I should now feel comfortable with who I am and how I represent myself to the world, I seek out my reflection constantly, same checklist in mind.

Perhaps I try to find something deeper, that little "spark" or detail that everyone else seems to see in me but that I cannot see in myself. If I look in enough mirrors, will that ever give me the opportunity to see me as others do?

Mirrors represent a constant search for a me that I, evidently, am not yet certain truly exists except through the eyes of others. What do mirrors represent for you?

editing my life away

I did a lot of that today, on my book, so that is good. It was a High Progress Day...one new student @ twice a week, passport photos taken of the kids (decided that, since He is off more likely than not soon, I had better get everything done that requires both parents' signatures...) and iPod kids mix updates done. Made a healthy AND delicious dinner, then settled back onto my darling laptop to edit the heck out of seven chapters.

Phew!

But it's getting done.

So this is a mundane post, but at least I am here and am still reading you...I just know that, once He is gone, I will have zero book-working time left (tonight is one of his nights with the kids) so I must get as much done as humanly possible now.

Oh, by the way: I can eat Haagen-Dasz' Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream. No soy in that, baby. The details sure do add up to getting myself back up to a certain quality of life standard.

Time to finish my ice cream and rest these tired brain cells for the night. Excuse the "so this is what I did today" post. Can't think much deeper than that right now, and I know I must be thankful for all I did, in fact, accomplish in a mere 24 hour period today.

yawn

I'm tired. I've just been plain exhausted.

Partially due to it being January...you know, cold, dark, blaugh.

I have also worked hard...my house is officially clean. That says a lot right there.

I'm burning out during the day so I can wear the kids down so they will sleep at night early so I might have a few minutes. These minutes elude me by the time they come around because I'm too tired to enjoy.

And I hear my 5:00 a.m. alarm all right. I just choose to ignore it and instead I fall back into blissful slumber.

My dreams are turbulent, so bliss is not the most apropriate modifier. I suppose that will contribute to a general feeling of needing-to-hibernate.

I'll do the taxes next weekend. After that...anything expected of me? If not, you can find me curled up in my bed living off what little body fat I have for survival. (insert yet another yawn, so hard tears spring from my eyes) Time for sleep.

Here's to sweeter dreams!