susserative aspirations

Perfunctory Probability Permutations

600 posts

Apparently, once upon a time,  I wrote, quite a bit actually (600 some odd posts).

And all that writing was made private.   There were too many things I was trying to figure out at once, with too many people looking on as the massacre of my former identity was taking shape.  It was too raw and so I made this blog completely private.   On the way out, I had allowed in two very nice bloggers  who’d requested access via email and then I tried to clean things up, and resultantly just gave up completely on this blog.  I ignored all the rest of the requests and stopped writing nearly completely.   Stopped creating.  Stopped procuring.

But I have been a little angsty lately about the educational system my kids are in.  I’ve been a little angsty about the incongruity of the world and what it means to be alive and free from harm.

I’m also hoping that my divorce happens this year, like it was supposed to last year, and I’m broke.   All good reasons for my thoughts to be in digital egress.

So the other day I found myself within the comforting confines of the wordpress editor.  Typing out a few thoughts about schools and kids and what happens in kindergarten these days.  My youngest is “graduating” kindergarten this week.   I’ve a vested interest I suppose.

And so I wrote, and clicked “publish”… thinking the blog was private and I’d captured these errant rhetorical thoughts for another day when I could process them more fully.

But then I just noticed a comment.  I noticed a “like”.   And I had to ask myself, “Why am I hiding my thoughts and writing?”  Who am I protecting? Me? You? Her? Them?

I’ve got an awesome partner that has been encouraging me to write for months now.

So why aren’t I writing?

I’m scared.  I’m terrified that the mess that makes up my most essential and private thoughts somehow jeopardize the life I want.  This isn’t an unfounded fear because I’ve actually had this happen to me.   My private thoughts, entrusted to those closest to me, only to be twisted and turned on me.    Vilifying me.  Shaming.  Etc.

How do we trust the world with our intimate selves?

Maybe we speak slowly, in quiet whispers, our desires and needs and messy selves.   Until we can speak clearly and with pure intent, surrounding ourselves with others who know how to do the same, for we can lead the way with our bravery to be essential and true.  Honest to ourselves and others. We aspire in the quiet moments.

But fear will always persist.  Like slippery moss at the entrance to the mind’s cave.  We will fear the love we need the most.

Persist.  that’s all I can say for now.    Keep writing.

And so I do.

What we’re doing to our children.

This is a bit of rhetoric, not requiring response but rather a bit of thoughtful challenge to us all.

When we wonder why children are killing each other with guns, perhaps we should ask why they don’t know how to get along anymore and why do they choose the utmost violent means of retaliation rather than working it out.

After all, what’s more important to us? Living a life that is fully connected to living, or a life spent accomplishment and the perspective of a quantifiably successful life?

What we value, we seem to impose on our most vulnerable and impressionable populations readily. So what happens when these kindergartners grow to be adults, and the culture we’ve sought becomes one that only values competitive edge, and we are then old adults and are no longer contributing members of society because of our age and ableness?

What happens when life itself has become too costly to live because rigor, progress, and measurement of goals, excludes life? Is life simply milestones of development that must be met or else, or rather an organic blossoming, an unfolding discovery of our stories we live every day until we die? When we take stock of our lives, have we lived or did we achieve? Did we create, or did we win? We should be ashamed that we are robbing children of their childhood, and the rest of their lives.



On letting go

“It seems the best things in life present themselves to you when you aren’t focused on them.  “

A friend was trying to convince me not to care so much about changing the world.  I’m easily swayed by the opinions of those I care about, but I know better.  I know better because there’s a part of me that keeps saying, “you were born to make a difference in the world”…   Late at night, early in the morning, over lunch in front of my computer… There’s that voice, “be the change you want to see in the world”.   Oh  wait, that’s Ghandi.

We talked about how when you obsess about something, you can’t help but affect or even destroy parts of the essence of the thing.   In science it’s refered to as Heisenberg’s Observer effect…  A simplified example used frequently is when you check the air in your tires.  You have to let a little air out and that minute amount of air has changed the original state of the tire.  You can’t observe tire pressure without depleting it somehow.  Humanity does this same thing to everything.

Someone else told me lately that it’s our ability to recognize ourselves as beings, that we are self-aware, that cause us so much discord with nature.  …   The cool kid doens’t try to be cool, he just is cool.   Did Ghandi, try to be Ghandi?  Does a flower try to be a flower?  Just be, just let it be, and all will come in time.  This is his advice.   So why is it that I have to “change the world” for a better place?  Why can’t I just be?   I also think in agreement; there’s no way I can fix, or affect, or change, the lives of 100 peoeple, much less 7 billion… so why try?  Why not worry about my own happiness for a change?   Because what would I be seeking to do?  Fill heartbreak with love? Commiserate angst with anxiety? Coerce apathy into action?

Alliterate axioms?

I think I may be at the point (AGAIN) where I need to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning.   Interestingly, that was the writing prompt that started the downward spiral so many years ago.    My Freshman year in college, she asked us to write an answer to: “what gets you out of bed in the morning”…   And I didn’t have a good answer,  my examination of my habitual rising, left me unsettled.  It wouldn’t have taken much to unsettle me regardless of that specific prompt, it was just one well placed critical existential question, that’s all.

So apparently, in looking for wisdom and gifts from the universe, I need to let go.   And I’m left wondering, if letting go, is giving up.  Is looking for release… Isn’t this the same as when someone who is suicidal, gives away all their crap… let’s it all go? They’ve found an exit.   Is spiritual ascension much different than corporeal suicide?

The Office Music

Where I work I am lucky enough to be able to listen to music.   Today I’ve got Pandora spinning out a stream of Allie Moss.  It’s good music to write to and a little less dark than the typical music I’ve been queuing up.    I’m also lucky enough lately to steal away a few minutes to get some some thoughts out into writing.

Out the window I hear some sort of music blaring.  I mean ‘loud enough for me to look’ blaring.  There’s a loading dock out there.  Usually filled with trucks beeping backup, scuffling boxes, scribbling signatures, manly voices calling out for assistance.

I half expected the noise to be reindeer revolting, as I threw up the sash to see what’s the matter.

There down below, is the source of the noise, it’s the recycling truck, run by unruly students.   Students that think they can make a difference by collecting the paltry pounds of cans, shards of clear glass, faded newspapers…  How unruly to make a difference they think they are.

— and then I recognize the noise, they’ve chosen to inundate all the offices above with—

“Crazy, but thats how it goes
Millions of people living as foes
Maybe its not to late
To learn how to love
And forget how to hate”

Now I get to think of them as unruly -crazy- kids…

Slightly different version below.

turkey high 5

At the end of the day; the hurricane greeted me with open arms. She’s three, or “this many” and she holds up 3 little fingers as though she’s saying “peace” with a little more emphasis. There’s that moment when they realize their reality just expanded to include someone familiar – someone only recently forgotten out of their minds. It’s as if they are awakening from some long internal dialog as they run to you from across the room.

She hugs me; There’s an age just past toddling when there’s  a wee bit of force behind this full tilt ‘th’ar be ice cream!’ run. If you’re not paying attention they’ll knock you over or worse, reorganize your crown jewels. It’s happened.

She spins around and sticks her hand up in the air, “Give me high five” she squeaks. I go to give her The turkey high; she stops me… ” No silly, I give you high five!” Her excitement is oozing. I hold my hand still, she plants her closed fist against my flat hand – her thumb out, wiggling.

She giggles and yelps “gobble gobble gobble”.

She’s only part hurricane, mostly she’s just cute.

Trying to be the lighthouse

I’m writing this post because I want to have something to say.

I’m writing this post because I think  that through writing, I’ll find the answers…

I’m writing this post because I need to practice writing more and to work on writing ‘ eloquence’.

To figure out what the hell to do with myself.   To come up with some answers about the disparity between self-worth and intrinsic value to the world.   I want to find an answer.

and part of me is certainly tired of looking for answers 
and coming up with questions.

It’s like; if I say something here, if I pose just the right amount mystery mixed with mad meandering meaning, if I can quixotically claim right to letters blinking on a page, and maybe I can find a home for my soul amongst the digital egresses of modernity;

someone will comment down below.  And offer brilliance, offer insight, offer grace.  There’s a few who do. Time and time again.   :)  but still I also welcome, the welcoming commonplace…

But even after all these years, I wallow in the fear of shallowness.

Because the depth of friendship – I do not know.

I want to read your blogs, I want to buy your chairs.   and I do. and suddenly I’m self aware, and this process of talking about something, trying to be the lighthouse for someones, becomes arduous.Lighthouse

Acutely aware of our own actions becomes our bane.

I remember a fleeting moment, not so long ago, when my muscles were stronger, my charm was instant, and my intellect sharp.   Now I’m remembering tomorrow; unwritten, but much like all the multitude of days that  have flowed by, day to night, slumber to sleep, daykeep…

I want to look forward to something.  Something grand and of my own design…  A someplace that’s outside, a someplace inside.

I want passion. for. life.

— I’ve been thinking about starting a new blog entitled “the silence of men”… originally it was supposed to be a humorous commentary about the inability of men to communicate, but then thinking more about it, it just made me sad.—

Today, at the bank, a younger man walked up to the teller.   She asked ‘how she could help him’, as all good customer service people do, and she smiled as even better CS people do, and this young man took this invitation to exude the following:

“Well, I just bought a new car, and am getting it registered, and well, I’ll need to insure it as well, just now I got it. really …  ”  And the woman behind the counter stared at him blankly.

“And since I’ve got to register and inspect it I figured I’d come here to get some money and make sure that I have enough to do all that.”

and the woman replied, “and how much would you like?”…   I stopped listening but what I heard when I was listening was, “hey you, lady behind the desk, I GOT A NEW CAR! don’t you want to hear more about it? because I want to tell you.”

And really, what would have been about “the silence of men” became “the silence of humanity”… The things we haven’t said.  I think men, traditionally have a cloak of silence, which is a shame, and that cloak ( a cloak of in-efficacy), has been extended to each and every one of us now.   The walls between us are high.  I know I have a hard time seeing over them.

I don’t want to feel like an outsider to your rich moments…  And I know, if my moments were rich, I’d inadvertently make you feel like an outsider to them.  I apologize.   They are not rich, it’s just that the grass seems greener, the room is crowded and the uncommon folk feel alone.

But really, when I picture my walls, the differences that I keep between me and the next person, is about being understood, about connecting on things we value, about stewing in the misery of a commonplace existence and needing to, trying to, fighting to, find a way out from the common place, to a place that fits.  I also know that I can look inwards to look out but there’s only so much shining shit can be shone.

A little bit about myself.

There’s a story I’m leading up to and this is all character development for it…  The character I’m hoping to develop is Mine.

I don’t know if it matters whether you hear the history of this (the resiliency) or you start from right now at this moment reading onwards.   I know history is subjective. I know our names, our places, our times… It’s all temporary.   Our futures are even subjective.  We paint our tomorrows with best-est intentions.  Well most of us.

Some days I feel like I’m writing only for this one person and she might now know who she is;  but on Other days, I feel like I’m writing this for my kids.

They’re too young to know my troubles, nor the scope of my love, my darkest hours, my lightest moments.   I don’t think it’s right to expose them until they are old enough to understand it.   I also worry I’ll be too old and too innundated by the ennui it all to care to remember or account for my life.  When will the time be that they are mature enough to care who that guy really was changing all those diapers years ago.

Like now, I’m actually old enough to forgive whomever my biological father was.   Forgive him for not being there.  Forgive him for missing out on EVERYTHING.   I would love to know him. Love to know his story.    Medical forms always ask about him.

But more importantly, tonight.   Zak, I love this boy more than I love myself.  He is 6.  He is free spirited and barefoot most days.   He’s the kid who climbs to the top of the tree and jumps out.  Proportionally he’s stronger than any other human I have ever met in my life… proportinally.   he’s balanced and spriteful.  He has red curly hair that’s trying to dance on his shoulders…   I’m simply not going to do justice to his spirit here.  So let me move on to what’s the important piece.

It’s 7pm… dinner’s wrapping up.  I tell him he is cute, and ask if anyone at school tells him this.  He proceeds to turn to his older brother and tell him *he* is cute.  He says, “don’t call me cute”… For the life of me I don’t know the why but this is how the argument starts.  This is how the whole night dissolves into chaos.  This is how, a little boy with everything in the world going for him, turns into Hyde.   At one point, after all the deep breathing I could do, he and I went outside, in the yard, in the dark and sat there.  I rocked him… he yelled “brownie” at me repeatedly.   (there was no way he was getting a brownie after throwing his shoes, breaking a wall, spitting on the floor, and screaming for an hour straight)…  So, I sat quietly with him…. for about an hour,  while he said brownie every thirty seconds.

He’ll be OK once he sleeps this off; kids with high energy, have high metabolisms, and when they need to sleep or eat… They need to sleep or eat.

Me?  I’m wondering who Charlie McCloughlin is.   He’s the person who misses out on these moments now, he’s the person who never held me for an hour in the darkness, while I cried about a brownie.   He’s out there.  and I forgive him for not being here.   I don’t know that I have the strength to do this at times and even though I could forgive someone else for walking away. I could not forgive myself.   Because I love this kid.   I love him, and the easiest thing for me to do is to keep showing up, and to keep asking more of myself on his behalf.

I suppose, I’m old enough to forgive someone for not loving me, that’s what I’m skirting around up in that last paragraph, but I can’t forgive myself.  I hold myself to such a high standard… and really I wish others would hold themselves to something like that too.   Find it in yourselves to love the person you say you love.  I keep trying even when the doors are locked.

Music: This is not like home – Great Lake Swimmers


mirror neurons

are like seeing yourself in the love of another.

Can we forgive imperfections, and human failings?  Aren’t we only looking for ourselves when we write to another.  SO why does it hurt so bad, because we lose a part of ourselves when the other walks away.  Our minds exist outside our bodies, in the space between you and me we create “reality”.

When that is broken, we lose pieces of ourselves… but have space for others…

thermonuclear sleepwalking

Trolling the blogs for sustenance, I look up to the door cracking open.  A 6 year old, red locks of curly Adonis, thermonuclear metabolic chamber of youth… mostly asleep zombie – stumbles.

There’s a bathroom near his room.   It’s not finished.  There is no toilet in it.  There’s a single naked bulb hanging from a pair of wires in the ceiling.

‘Where is he going?’

Standing in the doorway;  He found a 5 gallon paint bucket.   He’s peeing in it.

I ask;  “Zak?  Why are you peeing in a bucket?”

“I’m not!”  he says with indignation.

He zips up his feetsie pajamas and walks past me, and clamors back into his bed like nothing ever happened.   Because to him nothing *has* happened.


Hey kittens, there’s got to be a little fluff in between the resiliency series for sanity’s sake.

Snow day part 2.

Yesterday. After a brief moment of bliss as my coffee made love to my lips, I went about the rest of the day.

The girl that drove off needed running water. This required crawling under the house. A space frequently by the vagrants of the natural world it seems. In some spots there is 14 inches of space to crawl through. In the best of places there was a 3 foot deep hole filled with water, soil, mud and possum poop. This is where the sitting and standing was best accomplished. Possum poop. Oh yes.

Pipe fittings here, pipe fittings there. Darkness. Smells like a something died over in the corner. After a series of cursatory outbursts. It was done. The kitchen sink had cold water, the toilet should work now.

Hours had passed. New toilet pieces were installed. I’d moved a refrigerator into the house, over the slick angled decking. Something deep inside my spine twinged. The shower, the stove hookup, the refrigerator outlet, the hot water heater, would have to wait.

Dinner was microwaved hot dogs; the kids had eaten their share already. The TV cooing them into slumber as I assessed the tear in my jeans and the mud that stretched from my feet to my elbows. fucking possum poop. More wood was needed in the stove.


The zombies wanted me to put them to bed. It’s a game we play where I pretend to lay next to them. Oh go to sleep my little ones. It’ll be morning soon. And really… I’ve drifted off before they have. Slumberous bed.



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