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 I start a load of laundry, take the boy to school, pour a cup of coffee, put the dogs out, answer email. I fold a load of laundry, make some phone calls, drink another cup of coffee, sit at my desk and write a few listless words that won’t go where I want them . . . → Read More: Behind My Eyes Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.1 (except it’s less of a part and more of an interlude) Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 If you haven’t read parts 1-6, that’s OK. This one stands pretty well all by itself. Peek with me into a house and observe the family therein. There’s . . . → Read More: The Transcendent Familiar 7: Choking on the Ashes  For context, you might want to read this first. You know what sucks about being sad? Besides the sadness, I mean. It’s the all-consumingness of the thing. (Spell checker doesn’t care much for the word consumingness, to which I say get over yourself, spell checker! I have bigger problems than you!) No, what really . . . → Read More: Withouting Let’s just call grief what it really is: a wily, slimy, and brutally persistent motherfucker. Grief is like moths that thump against the lampshade until I am almost mad with their noise, except these moths are 40 pounds apiece and they are slamming against the inside of my skull. It’s a weight in my . . . → Read More: Cry Me a River Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.1 (except it’s less of a part and more of an interlude) Part 4 Part 5 However, maybe you didn’t read those, and maybe you want to read one post and not 6. Fair enough. Here’s what you need to know: Robert was my first husband. We . . . → Read More: The Transcendent Familiar 6: Love Is Not a Victory March As predictable as sleepless nights with a newborn… As predictable as spring winds in Albuquerque… As predictable as taxes on April 15 in the US… That’s how predictable I am. My sons are both nearly perfect physical replicas of their fathers, what people have called, ever since those weird Austin Powers movies, a “mini . . . → Read More: As Predictable As Rain In Seattle Midmorning on Friday, July 4, 1997, my then husband, Robert, was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and our den, holding our 19 month old daughter Abbie and screaming at me. “I’m leaving! Do you hear me? I’m out of here! I don’t love you anymore! You make me sick! You’re a fucking . . . → Read More: Independence Day  |
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