Halloween

A long and tiring day. A storm blew in, heavy rain and hail, massive amounts of lightening. A rainbow followed, and what else makes Halloween special but a rainbow tornado?


Tis what it sounded like as I took this picture from the deck; the wind was howling through the backwoods.

Baby-bot as Tinkerbelle had a lovely time trick or treating after the storm finally passed. We went to the other's. To my mom, and my dad's. To my former church for Trunk or Treat, where church members park their cars in the parking lot and local children come and gather said treats from the trunks, and only a few shouts of Jesus loves you! could be heard amongst the sound of people laughing and talking. Quite a few compliments were graced upon my child. Aw, isn't she cute?!


She was quite charming. Smiling. Dancing around.

I had one of those moments only parents can truly understand...when your child is a few feet away from you in a parking lot and you look at her and time is suddenly frozen. You see her. She is lit up by the warm light of the streetlamp overhead. You can't help but think, my child is gorgeous and special, and my God at how old she is.

I'll never forget that moment.

Happy Halloween.

I'm Awake...

In a very strange place. Life is changing, as always, of course, but something feels different. Those days when you awake with a clear head and a full heart, and you know something’s changing, though you're not sure what, but you know not to be scared. To stand still for a moment, and watch...wait...it's changing, and maybe this time, for the best.

I'm in a very strange state. My mind is racing, yet I feel I'm in slow motion. Leaves falling, and Baby Girl rushing past, yet I'm walking the dirtroad in silence. Each step is thoughtful, careful. Quiet. I smile, and my eyes fill with tears because I know something is over. A chapter of my life is closing, and as a writer, I know chapters...I know an ending when I see it.

I know it's time to write another novel. To take it seriously, and be the best damn writer I can be.

Not be distracted. Not be sad. Not be lonely, or wanting, or selfish, or needy. Not be so isolated. Yet unseen.

I'm simply stepping away, climbing over the fence, and where's Ash? someone asks. Everyone smiles and nods, and says, Ah, there she is, walking slowly now, but come November, she'll be running...full speed ahead towards the sunset, through the tall grass. I know. Said Huck Finn, I been there before.

And I miss that field. That tall grass.

Aiming for the sunset.

You've got to catch it, though, while it last. Or else you'll freeze to death.

Novel Land and the field you have to cross, the fence, to climb, the sun, to catch, it's a cold and lonely place. You can't fall. You can't stop. You can't give up at the first sign of bad prose or weak plot. There are living things that hide amongst that tall grass. They will devour you, given the chance. Those little creatures, those monsters, they spawn from our own self doubt. Waiting...watching. Destroying all dreams. Killing all writers, should we stop, or should we fall, our stories won't be told.

...

In my head: all that I just wrote; change, and the monsters in the grass. How I fear them, yet how excited I am for November, and this, my third real attempt at noveling.

In my heart: I am not well. Healing, though, I think.

In my life: I have so many stories to tell...I've been busy, though, and time must be made for telling stories. Hopefully I'll find that time, not only for me, but for others. Those moments when the monsters are sleeping, and I can stop and breathe easy for the chance to say Hi, how are you? I want and need you in my life.

...

One last story on this short and sunlit morning:

I drove out to the Lake again last Tuesday. I parked upon a steep hill to watch the sunset. The lake to one side, a green valley to the other, full of trees, their leaves beginning to change. Fall. Gold light upon their heads, and my face, through the window in the car, I said aloud everything to everyone I was thinking of. Those who find their way into my heart and into my head, and some of them I want there, all of them I need there, and after saying my thoughts aloud, I said to myself, I want to be happy. I want to live.

I want to watch the sunset over beautiful lakes. Clear water. Sitting on wooden boat docks, writing. Excited for novels, and each new day.

I don't want to fall into that valley where I'd surely break my neck. And who would find me, as I'm dieing, but the monsters in the grass.

Slowly Sinking

Feeling playful, yet lonely. I haven't slept. It's been raining here since Wednesday morning. Gray. Storming.

Sorry for my lack of posting and presence in general: I haven't been online much this week. Busy. Sad. Etc.

I hope everyone else is happy and well.

Just for fun, and fluff, and Friday, I stole the following survey from my friend JVS:

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

My idea of perfect happiness is walking barefoot on a beach with blue skies, blue water, white sand, soft and smooth. Sun setting. Rising. Making love in the inbetween time. Then running home to a big warm bath, and equally warm and big bed with a skylight above me so I can see the stars. Somewhere that isn’t a trailer in tornado alley. With a man who actually loves me, for what’s in my heart if I have one.

That, and being a published writer.

What is your greatest fear?

Never being a published writer.

What is your favorite journey?

The journey from the blank page to the full page.

What do you consider the most over-rated virtue?

Love.

What virtue do you wish you had more of?

Patience.

On what occasion do you lie?

When my head and heart both agree that it’s best and basically harmless. But I don’t like to lie, and rarely do so.

Which words do you most over use?

In real life: No (to Baby Girl). I’m lonely. [Profanity]

In my writing: God Damn. Come. Inbetween. In general. Blue. Green. Sun.

What is your greatest extravagance?

Shoes.

What do you dislike about your appearance?

I’ve come to terms with my outward appearance. I think it’s all right. Not too fond of the stretch marks, though. Or my giant nose.

Which living person do you most despise?

My step-dad.

What is your greatest regret?

Not killing step-dad.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

What, would be my writing. Who, would be Baby Girl. And in the more romantic sense: the boy who broke my heart into thousands of tiny pieces when I was sixteen.

When and where were you happiest?

In the front yard, at a party, on New Year’s Eve, 1999. I will forever live in that little moment in time when we were together, and just starting to fall in love. Thinking the world was fixing to end, I asked him to crawl into the backseat and sleep with me. When he said no, I loved him immediately.

Which talent would you most like to have?

Singing. Tis a dream of mine to star on Broadway.

What is your current state of mind?

Dark clouds, clearing? Breaking. Something new and exciting on the horizon. A chance to wander through tall grass. Run towards the sunlight. Be warm and happy in a constant state of writer’s delight. Yet my heart is aching. I am lonely. Quiet. Restless on this long and rainy night.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

There’s no answer to this question for me. My family is a lost and broken cause.

If you could die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?

I’d come back as a cat. Lie in bed all day. Sit on people’s laps. Rub my tiny nose against their cheeks. Be petted. Loved. Fed. Watered. Adored by my owner. Sit in the windowsill warming my sleek black fur. Stare at the sun. Chase mice. Purr while having my tummy rubbed.

What is your most treasured possession?

All my writing and photos.

What thing would you like to have, that you do not?

A real house.

What do you think is the lowest depth of misery?

The lowest depth of misery is helplessness during a time of danger. People cowering in war zones. Children being beaten in their own homes. Kids being shot at school. Families in burning buildings. People on crashing planes. Dieing in pain, with no escape.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Intelligence. Unless he’s WAY smarter than me, and makes me feel stupid in comparison.

What physical quality do you like in a man?

I like dark hair, dark eyes, kind smiles, big noses, strong arms. Really short, or really tall. Not too thin or too fat. Middle age is nice. They know who they are, and where they’ve been. Not always where they’re going. But that’s half the fun: being with them when they figure it out.

What do you most value in friends?

Compassion.

What quality do you most dislike in a person?

Cowardice.

Who are your favorite writers?

Frank McCourt. Dr. Seuss. Shakespeare. All my blogging friends.

Who are your heroes in real life?

My heroes are Frank McCourt, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Audrey Hepburn, and Sufjan Stevens. Frank won the Pulitzer. Bogart is just flat-out fantastic. Bacall had the balls to get what she wanted, and keep Bogart on his toes. Audrey was gorgeous, and graceful, and kind. Sufjan is also gorgeous, talented, writes and sings and plays from his heart.

What are your favorite names?

Francis, Tobias, Atticus, and Benjamin, for boys.

For a girl: Juliet.

How would you like to die?

Plane crash. Drowning. Or in my sleep would be just fine.

What is your motto?

Be calm.

Be clear.

Be concise.

Poetry Thursday: Right in Front of Me

This week's prompt is What’s in front of you. What inspires you. Where you go and what you see and how you feel. The words that come forth, straight from your heart and head.

In front of me, I see a bright screen. I see lights. I see boxes and blinking cursers. The proverbial blank page, just waiting to be filled. The possibility of an improvised poem. Not for what Inspires me, or what I see, but for who.

New Cart Smell

I lie in my hospital gown
in my hospital bed
in this hospital room
where the smell of blood
is looming

The day begins outside
noises in the hallway
voices over charts
hanging on the back of doors
the secrets they write

Windows open with slits of light
morning shines
I’m scared to be alive

I hear crying
footsteps
the door swings open
a nurse walks inside
pushing a cart

Four sides
a clear plastic bed
for a baby that's mine

I raise my head and smile
take her in my arms
as she waves tiny fists
with closed eyes
always missing

I kiss her

I whisper:

Welcome to your life

Who's coming with me?

she asks, ala Jerry Maguire.

I've been meaning to extend a wide open invitation to everyone and anyone. Write a novel in one single month, with tons of support, in the company of fellow writers. It's fun! And hard. And truly a great way to get the first one over with if you've never written a novel before. It's goes so quickly, the self hate and doubt is postponed indefinitely! (Also known as December.)

...

Sign Up Here. Now. Please?

...

What you'll receive:

A novel.
Fifty thousand words.
In thirty days.
Endless cups of coffee.
A short break from blogging.
The love and respect of A. B. Chairiet.
A certificate, should you finish.

I'll poke you with a stick and make sure you finish!

Me and BB and JVS...we're going to light fires and write novels and get published and be famous!

Why not join us?

...

You had me at NaNoWriMo...

Chasing White

Monday morning, and the heat's blowing. I'm drinking cold water. Awake for hours now. Baby Girl woke me up at One-Forty, screaming, crying. Why? I don't know. She hasn't been sleeping well. It's always too hot here, or too cold. I dress in her warm jammies, but then the heat blows, and with blankets, sheets, it's far too much. So I don't run the heat and she gets cold. I can't win. Couldn't fall back asleep. Laid in bed. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts on my lack of writing these past few days. How I've barely been online at all. Only once since Thursday, but I was drunk. Insanely drunk...

For the last time, I swear.

No drinking for NaNoWriMo.

I've settled on a title:

Noah, by A. B. Chairiet

I hope it will be publishable.

Tis my goal, Love. My big goal, like an illuminated bulls-eye, swinging and swaying on the end of a string.

I want to shoot it in its center.

Catch the white rabbit. Join him for tea. And not be beheaded by the evil queen otherwise known as writer's block, giving up, getting stuck on chapter three...

I aim. But how do I shoot the center when the circle swings and sways?

There's so much to do beforehand. So many loose ends to tie, and friends to say hello to. No goodbyes, though. I'm not leaving. I couldn't bear the loneliness now...It's getting so cold, so quiet. The hum of the fan and the lull of the heat. The sound. The warmth. I need this and you and friends.

I've been so busy in reality.

Spent the weekend with Baby Girl. Cooking, cleaning.

We went to a party on Saturday. No slipping down embankments. No happy families making me jealous, or sad. I sat in the floor of a tiny living room with lots of loud mouth fat-ass women and quiet redneck men. Obnoxious children. A baby who just turned one years old. Cake. Ice Cream. No thank you, I don't want any, and the fat women give me dirty looks.

When you get older, one says, You'll realize it doesn't matter.

And they all laugh.

I don't care how old I am, being fat and unhealthy is never wise, and when she's on her deathbed at thirty five having a triple bi-pass, maybe she'll think twice about giant slabs of cake with ice cream and cookies and Coke, and casting dirty looks, rolling her eyes, and mispronouncing my daughter's name...

Oh, she said, upon my correcting her.

That must be a family name.

No it's not a family name. It's just a God Damn Name! Now eat your puckin' cake and tell your obnoxious little monster children to shut the puck up! They’re so shrill, my head's aching.

I hate parties. I hate stupid cake and stupid people and stupid families that are boring and obnoxious and I'd rather stay home with Baby Girl and be quiet and lonely than go amongst people who are loud and ordinary.

I love when my dreams come true in a way that corrects my prior thinking.

I only hope the bulls-eye isn't really swinging or swaying.

I hope the white rabbit's in reach.

Pride and Prejudice

What do you mean you don't like my mustache?!

So it's Saturday, and I couldn't sleep. I'm drinking. Listening to loud music. Dancing. Life is swell, albeit strange and busy.

Monday night, I was lying in the floor with Baby-bot, half-playing with her in her dollhouse, half-watching The Harvey Girls in my nightgown, waiting patiently for the Bolger/Garland dance number, How delightful to see them reunited! when I heard a knock at yonder door. Twas a neighbor of mine. A young mother of her own baby girl. She was married, but that didn't last...they're still married though. Southerners rarely take the time (cough, cough, the money) to receive technical, legal, oh-the-shame-of-it-all divorces, so. Yes. Married. But not for long...ran off and joined the army. Was stationed up north. Got knocked up and now she's home. Lives up the road from us. Her little darling is turning one years old, and having a party this afternoon.

We're invited. Tis why she stopped by...handed me the invitation. I immediately thought of my dream: the party full of families, and Baby Girl falling.

I should probably be sleeping now, especially not drinking, so I can keep two open eyes on her at all times later today.

...

Went for a walk Tuesday or Wednesday. Heard horrible noises out in the woods. Twas three dogs having sex, simultaneously, while another dog stood watch. His tongue hanging out. Panting. All of them howling. I laughed, and they heard me...broke it up long enough to chase me and Baby Girl, who yes, was crying. And fear of dogs or not, I kept my cool, I'm proud to say. I told Baby Girl, Don't cry, it's okay. Told the dogs, Hush up, filthy mutts! They went back to their business, not in the woods, though, but right there in the middle of the road.
...

I didn't go to that local festival. No one would go with me, and I didn't feel like taking Baby Girl alone.

...

My father came over Thursday night with a Pizza for him and Baby Girl.

They sat and ate, as he and I discussed politics and the upcoming elections. I asked for his opinions on the candidates...

Big mistake.

Dad ranted and raved about how I should vote for Asa Hutchinson, and not Mike Beebe. Unless of course I like Bill Clinton (which is a mortal sin in Dad's book) because Bill Clinton, while in office, he says, was more interested in whores than the state of our nation. You don’t support that, now do ya? Support Bill Clinton...damn, worthless...

Random mutterings, all muffled by cheese and various pizza toppings. Baby Girl's bibble-babbling. My own sighing, and crinkling of the newspaper.

I ask what makes Asa Hutchinson so great? Besides the fact that I find him more, if only somewhat, aesthetically pleasing...

Dad said, He's against those Homosexuals getting married, adopting babies.

I said, I have no problem with gay people getting married...I think all marriage should be illegal though. Tis the stupidest, most outdated institution known to modern man.

As for gay parents adopting babies: I told him there are so many sweet little babies who need homes, and who the hell can say who's fit to be a parent and who's not? I raise Baby Girl, and no, I'm not gay, just a young borderline alcoholic who's somewhat suicidal, depressed for life, and this makes me better suited to care for another human being, more so than those who prefer the same-sex while fornicating??

Please. Sexual Orientation matters not, when all kids need is love and attention. I give Baby Girl a million times the ocean! I hug and cuddle and tell her I love her.

The fact that I find women attractive is completely irrelevant when it comes to my ability to be a great parent.

My father doesn't know...doesn't care. Rants and raves. Eats. Finishes.

We moved to the living room to watch Brian Wilson in concert. Talk of who was better: The Beatles or the Rolling Stones.

He goes home to his wife, the home-wrecking dogface bitch that slept with him while he was still married to my mother, who is obviously straight as a board, and wasn’t a good parent at all. My father either. He wasn't around...not at all concerned for the state of his daughters while in office with his whore.

We thanked him for the pizza, and kissed him goodnight.

...

Friday was all right. I worked hard. Took a short nap, and then got up and took Baby Girl for a long walk. Twas cool and breezy. Nice. We talked and had fun, and she's so excited for the party. Keeps saying, Birthday party! and smiling.

Finally got her to bed around ten. Went to bed myself and laid there, staring at the ceiling. Couldn't sleep. Just laid there, and laid there...my head full, and my heart...well, I'm not sure what she's wanting, or losing, or needing, or what she says to my head when I'm not listening.

I came in here to drink.

Poetry Thursday: Avoid the Kitchen, that's where the poems are

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is What We Avoid. As poets, writers, people in general.

I avoid myself. The sound of my own inner voice. I isolate myself for a bit of quiet, though the quiet drives me back to writing lest that pesky inner voice grow too loud. My head too full. My heart too empty.

That's where poetry comes in.

It empties my heart, like cleaning the lint trap of the clothes dryer.

While "cleaning", I try my best to avoid A) Ovary Poetry, B) Weirdo Beatnik Poetry, C) Greeting Card Poetry, and D) Refrigerator Poetry.

Example of A :

The life force of my body
Eggs
Something stupid about love and bon-bon’s
All hail womankind!

I have no idea...mush-mash and such.

Example of B :

DeaTH chAses Me
To SEe
what My EyeS hear
The Pain, the pain
OF My Father'S birtH
KillING me
My OWn two Hands
Dieing

[Ash giggling] Again, I have no idea...that one reads a bit more like a sad little gothic kid* who want to slit their wrists and wear nothing but black and eat seeds and smoke cigarettes. Constantly whining and taking up space.

*This form should also be avoided.

Example of C :

Our Love is the brightest
of all stars
in the heavens
shining for eternity
like never ending rings

Bleh.

Love is stupid and should be hated.

Example of D :

I was reading an article the other day on the low standards of the average American when it comes to entertainment. How watered-down and dumb television and film has become. Etc, etc. And came across the phrase Refrigerator Poetry. How anyone (yes, anyone) can "write" poetry with the help of those "delightful" little magnets.

I own a set of them myself. They were a gift, and I'm thankful for 'em. I smiled and thought 'em quite delightful myself. But for actual writing? Well, poetry, to me, is a bit more than magnets on a fridge...though for the sake of this (now slightly wayward) post, here's a fridge poem for you. "Written" by me between four-fifty and five-seventeen of this morning, sitting barefoot on the fake hardwood of my cold kitchen floor with a cup of coffee, my camera, and no idea whatsoever on how to go about creating something of coherence with nothing but magnets, the hum of the fridge, and my heart's inner voice still sleeping.



For the kids who can't read good:

Love Me
Save Me
Interrogate Me
Hate Me

Use Me
Fix Me

Obliterate Me

Okay, so I filled in the blanks a bit. And yes, the third magnet says Integrate, not Interrogate, but I didn't know that at the time [cough-cough, Ash can't read good either].

...

End Note: Ninety percent of this is my joking. I respect poetry, poets, and anything they say and represent (within reason).

I think the only poetry that should be avoided is dishonest poetry. As long as you're telling the truth, not Non-fiction necessarily, but the truth as your heart and head sees it, then poetry is great and should be loved. As long as writing it made the poet happy.

I'm not happy.

I'm ready for November and fictional prose.

Maybe it was Utah

Monday, October 16th: the start of another week. Another morning where I sit with coffee and a keyboard, a ceiling fan above me. A clean office I spent five hours cleaning while not working over the four day weekend. Who knew I had so many things I didn't need? Whole stacks of papers, stories I wrote, and smiled over reading. How enthusiastic I used to be! How happy. How distracted by the coffee and the keyboard and the fan.

It's raining out. The constant tapping on my tin roof is making me sleepy. I didn't sleep well last night. Woke up angry. I don't remember dreaming.

I had plenty of dreams Saturday night once I finally stumbled to bed after watching documentaries on sex addicts, and students sleeping with their teachers, and no, they didn't abuse their trust, and yes, they must have sex, they're addicted. I don’t believe 'em but watched like a kid at a sideshow. People throwing knives at other people spinning on wheels, crying. Scared. I dreamt I was walking down a muddy road, alone, with snakes hiding in the puddles, rattling and slithering. Lunging at my ankles. Snakes everywhere! In the grass that grew alongside, falling from the treeline. My father stepped out into the road ahead shouting, Watch out for those snakes, Ash. Watch out for those snakes...

I went on to dream of Baby Girl and I going to a birthday party for another child. After parking longways in front of a house with children all running in the yard full of happy families with gifts in hand, new babies in their arms, smiling over everything, I climbed from the car and unfastened Baby Girl and sat her down, and she was so happy to see the other kids, to play with someone other than me, that she ran into the yard and was laughing, but I told her to stop. Wait. I have to get the gift from the passenger seat. I walked back to the car and was struggling to get the big heavy present and my purse and the keys. I wasn't watching. She was coming back to me, and slid down an embankment into a big moving stream, and I yelled at someone standing closer to reach in and grab her, but they didn't, so I jumped in, and she was fine. Thank God, she was fine! But I had to take her home and get us changed and by the time we made it back, the party was over. It was dark. The families were leaving.

The final dream was of me, walking through a door into a room where all four walls were tall clear glass. Sunlight pouring onto white wood floors. In the center was a stage, and on it, a bed, and on it, my ex best friend, M. Short, thin, green eyes and a big toothy smile like Julia Roberts. I said hi, and we hugged. It was just like old times. Lying in bed by each other's side. Staring out the windows, I asked her, Where are we? She said it was a famous building where they once shot a movie, but it was so old, she bought it for cheap, and would I like a tour? I said I did. Pulling down a folded ladder with a string. She took my hand and led me through a door in the ceiling. We climbed up and out and into the sunlight, onto a flat square with stairs, slides, and tunnels connecting hundreds of other rooftops, all of different colors and heights: the buildings, stairs, tunnels, and slides. We played like the children in the yard until I got lost, and the sky went dark. Separated, I ran, searching, through windows and doors, trying to find her loft but never could. I stood in that darkness atop a roof waiting for the sun to rise. To pass the time, I took pictures of the tunnels and slides. The flash of my camera. My only light.

I'm outside your house

Looking through the window at a happy family, eating soup, or something from bowls with spoons. Steam rising making everyone's cheeks warm and pink. You and your wife and your kids, and everyone's happy, smiling. Your eyes all twinkle a bit as I lower my head. I walk away. Slowly at first, staring at my shoes making imprints in yesterday's snow. Then faster. Running down the sidewalk with one hand doing what it will, the other holding the letter, folded in an envelope.

You don't want what's inside.

And I won't bother you with it. I won't interrupt your dinner, your life. I won't ask for more than you can give me. I won't ring that doorbell and ask to come inside. Just for a moment, to warm myself by your fire, or at your soup or say nice things to your wife and kids. Oh what lovely things you have, here in this well furnished place with stairs that lead up to the bedroom where I wish you'd take me, but I know you never will.

...

I'm feeling sorry for myself this morning. Feeling sorry for the world in general.

Just felt like writing something.

It's Friday the 13th, and that's always a fun day for writing. Holidays, and other such special occasions usually inspire me. I think I might start a new short story later today. I'm not working. Didn't work yesterday. I had a hell of a day Monday, and Tuesday also, despite going to the lake: I did work until two. And then Wednesday was busy...plus I'm going to be majorly swamped next week. So, why not take off a couple days while things are light, and no one cares? Yes, I'm allowed that luxury. As long as the paperwork gets entered and filed, and as long as I meet next week's deadline, I can take off without any fuss.

I want to mention a few things, and then go back into my dark little corner where Pete Yorn is waiting to serenade me.

...

Yesterday, I wrote about buffets. Seems kind of silly out of context, but I think I can explain...

At the deadblog, for those of you who don't know or don't remember, I had a system that worked fairly well for me almost the entire time I was there: I'd sit down each morning (it was night for the Stuckeyblog, but I switched to mornings to help curb the depression and/or drinking...which yes, I need to do again. No more all and/or late night postings from me...I'm going to bed, and putting the bottle in the deep freeze...I'd sit down, though, and write for at least two hours every day I was online, and whatever came to me, that's what I posted...just a slight amount of editing, and no worries as to how unpolished it was.

I've been too concerned with "polishing." Writing pieces only to save them as drafts, print them out, edit, and deem 'em unworthy for posting. Toss 'em in the trash.

That's not helping me though.

I need to be unpolished. I need to improvise. Be extemporaneous. Less hard on myself.

So anyway...if my posting seems a bit, Why is she writing THIS? Just ignore me. I'm a sad little twenty-three year old who just desperately needs to return to her old system, lest she quit writing publicly altogether.

I sincerely hope no one will mind.

...

I'm going out tomorrow!

There's a big local festival uptown. I go every year. You may recall (again, for those of you who've been with me for a while), last year, I saw the boy I lost my virginity to, and he flat out ignored me. Which yes, hurt my heart very badly.

I'll be going with my sister, my mother, and of course, Baby Girl.

...

Speaking of her, and all that you may or may not remember...a year ago yesterday was the day when she got into my medicine and was rushed to the emergency room, where they wanted to load her up into a helicopter and fly her off to Children's Hospital in Little Rock. I said no, and here we are, one year later.

I think it's safe to say, she didn't swallow those pills after all.

...

I finally made my dentist appointment with Dr. Hottie!

Come early November, I'll get that tooth fixed, and all will be well in my mouth again.

...

And finally, I want to apologize for my whining and bitching and complaining about time, and/or the lack thereof.

It's completely and totally my fault, and I hope to God I didn’t make anyone feel uncomfortable or guilty, or a bane to me. No one is. I am the soul bane to my own little existence. I love everyone else, and sometimes don’t realize how my horrible lack of prioritizing can effect others. And really, that's all it is: I do have quite a bit on my plate (we all do), but it's not so much that I can't handle or carry it. I just lost my balance is all. And as a Libra, losing your balance is pretty much the end of the world for you. It just shuts you down...like all or nothing? It's nothing. If I have a lot to do, I end up doing nothing, and then feel guilty, and then sad, and then I get quiet and fall behind.

It's a vicious cycle.

But I'm working on that.

And I’m happy to say, after venting a bit of my sadness on the Tenth, then running off to the lake and taking off work yesterday and today, and going out with my family tomorrow, I DO feel a world lifted off my shoulders. I feel happy, almost. And relieved. That balance is finally returning to me.

It was just a blip. I blinked. A slight glitch in Ashley's mission of trying to get caught up from the summer...going away for a long time from the standard online life makes for a hard trip back into a normal schedule.

But enough of my whining. Like I said, I honestly feel like I have a handle on it this time, and before I know it, everything will be simple and breezy like it used to be: daily writing, daily reading, casual emails, and MYLO (my life online: a cute little abbreviation I found in my latest copy of GameInformer...yes, I read GameInformer) will be as warm and happy as the family eating soup on the right side of the window.

Here's looking at them...and you. Happy Friday the 13th!

Tray in hand

This morning's sunrise.

Tuesday was cold, gray. The sky wept constantly. Those tiny little soft raindrops that never really stick, only create little dots on the concrete. But I have a whole story to tell about Tuesday, so I’ll wait ‘til I have a bit more time. I woke up late this morning, but early enough to come in here. Sip my coffee. Read the loving comments left by loving friends who understand. The man who gives the most helpful advice. I read his letter and smiled. Felt warm. Was so happy he asked me not to disappear, because I had thought I might, just walk slowly into that water ala Jeff Buckley, except fewer people (times a million) would care, and I'd never get famous because of it.

Poor Jeff Buckley.

While out at the lake, I was eating French Fries and thinking of how people eat in restaurants, looking out the window, and why don’t they just get their food to go? Eat outside too, but if they’ve paid for the all you can eat buffet, then no, they’re stuck at the table. And how life could be compared to lunch breaks, and all you can eat...

You pay once, and He hands you your tray. An empty plate, a cup, and small bowl. Dirty silverware wrapped in a napkin.

You carry it with wide eyes, thinking of all the wonderful things you'll find as you reach the long line of people waiting for food warmed by lights overhead, hooded and humming, the ceiling fans spinning, the smoking section filled with coffee and fog. The kids crying for soft served ice cream, with sprinkles and chocolate and cherries on top. Mommy, I want it! And Mommy says no, grabs the kids by the arm, and yanks 'em away, as Daddy stares out the window.

You finally reach the front of the line, and everything's half empty. The potatoes have lumps. The chicken's pink.

What the hell is that yellow stuff supposed to be?

You think of the germs on the handles of the spoons and giant forks as you fill up your plate with the less questionable offerings you thought would be worth the price of admission, but now you're wishing you had bought an actual meal.

The full plate on the table before you. You unwrap your silverware. You take a deep breath, and take your first bite.

It's not nearly as good as you thought it would be. And all this food? All you can eat. The promise He made, and you took it, with a heavy plate, and only an hour to eat. The lunch break, the time inbetween walking into this place and being forced to leave...He takes your tray, and says, I hope your happy with the choices you made.

You say, I'm not. I would have rather had something from the kitchen, then the same old mundane choices like potatoes and chicken. I don't want to sit and eat all I can eat with too much to eat and no time to eat it. I thought I was getting the best deal...the most I could fit on my plate would mean more life, but it only means less time and space for the more important things. Like ice cream with sprinkles and chocolates and cherries.

Sweetness with fruit, sugar, and color.

He nods, knowing you've realized living like a child will bring you happiness, for as an adult, there's no one to tell you no. No father to ignore you.

You stand up and smile, and He hands you your tray. You march to the trashcan before it's too late.

You empty that plate that was too full of things, some good and some bad, and fill up your bowl with nothing but great! Place it in the center of your tray. Balancing is easier as you make your way back to your seat.

The empty chairs remind you of those who aren't there, but of those you wish would surround you for always. The people you love and the ones you hold dear. You hope they have full lives, but light trays for the brightest of days and nights.

Ice cream for everyone!

All you can eat...

All the time.

Poetry Thursday: In the News; America! (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider...)

When you write a poem, I know the words. I know the sounds. Before you write it down.

Today's prompt for Poetry Thursday is to pick up a magazine or watch the news, and magically become inspired! by...what? I have no idea. The news depresses me, and rightly should. I'll just write a poem about something else, thank you. How about...[Ash thinking]...Sufjan! Yes, Sufjan. I'm listening to him now, and why not an ode to my future husband?

A Man to Love Me

On the lakes of Canada
you sing my name
your banjo by your side
strumming harder
faster
rowing to the borderline

Swim across Lake Michigan
where morning comes in Paradise
for those children of the dead
you stop and sing a while
to lift their weary heads!

You drive through Illinois
‘til the avalanche buries you
and all is silent as you see
you've made a lot of mistakes
to be alone with me

What did you leave?
on that beautiful lake
your banjo in its black case
sprinkled with snow
like delicate lace

You look for my face
down in Arkansas
as you fly across the land
like the Lord God bird
all delighted people raise their hands!

Swarmed by your fans
I'm pushed aside
in the airport, near the plane you'll ride
when you leave again
to the lake, to hide

You find me and smile
Oh Ashley! you sing
I ask, What took you so long?
I got buried, you say
but I thought of a song

With no banjo to play?
I hold your hand as we fly
back north to the place
where your love lies
along with your case

You take me out on the lake
and play as I row
singing, Chicago
‘til we smile and make love
beneath the Fall sun
where all things go

You had to find it
buried in snow

I'm Lost

I haven't posted since my birthday, and now it's the tenth. The tenth day of the tenth month, and I'm getting drunk. It's somewhere between night and morning. I'm lonely. Sad. Feeling low for being a horrible blogger and an even worse friend.

I'm not sure where to begin...

I walked outside at two thirty am, and looked up at the sky, and there's the moon, burning slightly dim, with this perfect white ring all around. No stars or clouds, just the moon and its ring.

I can't find the time to get online anymore.

I'm so tired. Stressed out, and busy.

I miss people. But I just can't find the time...

Some of my friends have been saying goodbye to me.

I'm not leaving.

Some of my friends hate me for not being good to them.

I don't know what to do...

I've got so much I want and need to do, but I can't find the right balance. I can't write and blog, and be mommy, and worker, and woman, and friend. I'm so tired. What do I do?? How do I fix it?? How do I make everything right. Catch up and stay caught up and write and blog and work and play and cook and clean and sleep and everything to everyone all the time, consistently.

It never ends.

I'm going to bed.

Going out to the lake tomorrow to clear my heart and head.

I hope to come back, and have all the answers. Start writing and blogging again.

Be Mommy and worker and woman and friend.

Poetry Thursday: My Body, You Didn't Want

It’s not really the Fifth of October. It's the Seventeenth. I was severely depressed and/or offline the Fifth, so I missed a poem.

The prompt was My Body.

Dead of Winter

You smiled at me once
I saw your teeth flash white
like the snow we walk now
our feet sinking further
with every step
into the night

The trees grow taller
ice forming on pines
their heavy branches
run needles on the ground
like the fingers of a child

We stop in a clearing
you're quiet by my side
your arms wrap around me
and you lift me up high
throwing me to the night
where the wolves wait near by
you run and hide beneath the weighed-down pines

On my back
I am crying
as the wolves find me lying
in the open
moonlight shining
on tears in my eyes
the snow in the pines
they rip my skin
limb from limb
my body, broken

I remember your smile

I put the Oh in October

Today's my birthday.

Yay for childbirth and chocolate cake!

I made a wish to write a novel so great, it would have to be published.

Spent the day with my family. Getting happy. Writing. And here I am: happy and writing. Spending time with myself and my friends.

Life doesn't have to be so sad.

I can write a novel so good, it deserves to be published.

I deserve to be happy. Loved. Twenty-three with my eyes open wide. Come on, I scream across the universe, smiling, I'm ready when you are. Let's get famous! Stay happy! Eat cake! Have sweet dreams of more birthdays to come. For everyone!

October First is mine. :)