One of Those Days

I wish there was some warning on days when all hell is gonna break loose with my boys.
It sneaks up and bashes me over the head. Before I have a chance to steel myself I am in the throws of chaos. There are only just so many times my anger button can get pushed before it breaks in the "on" position. At that point I am often badly behaved myself, compounding the problem. Two first graders and one adult erupting, lashing out, struggling for control. I am the parent. I am suppose to be in control. When I am not, I feel like a failure.
So I tell myself "if only I had known it would be like this, I could've" what? And then why didn't I without needing to be warned?
I'm exhausted. Emotionally spent.
Looking forward to a new day, fingers crossed.

Sent from my iPhone

Just can't

Sometimes I just can't. Put my thoughts into concise sentences. Let go of anger enough to think straight. figure out my boundaries with my kids. Be patient. Feel sexy. Enjoy playing games with my kids. Stop my self from yelling. Remember to take care of myself. Bother with taking a shower, cause it feels like so much effort. Put on the happy face. Find a good attitude. Keep track of everything that needs to be done. Get it done, even if I have kept track. Figure out what to do with 10 minutes, other than sit and write about what I can't do.

Class A vs. Class B

It's interesting to volunteer in each of my boys' classrooms. Watching the teachers at work, experiencing what my kids experience and thinking back on my own childhood.
And I get the chance to COMPARE.
That thing we're not supposed to do... in many cases. It's hard not to, especially in this situation.
And the fact that one of them comes up lacking is unsettling to me.
I do believe that public education is in a crappy state. Even good teachers have to struggle within the limits they are given, follow the curriculum, get the students to test well, and deal with huge classroom numbers.
I also can see very different styles functioning within that system.
- both classrooms have moved the desks into clusters - teams of 4 or so each. One class has hanging signs over each group; Team #1, Team #2, Etc.. The other class also has hanging signs over each cluster: Team Dragon, Team Tornado, Team Cupcake.... and each sign has a description of each of the team members'  strengths written on it in the kids' handwriting.
-both classrooms have to do the same math. One of them does the workbook pages, the other one does the problems on the legs of a spider drawing, or a beetle drawing.
-one classroom has pet toads, the teacher has started reading a chapter book about a kid who loves chocolate, and they got out of work early for PE today.
-the other doesn't, hasn't, didn't.
No surprise that one kid seems to be a little happier in school than the other one.
I feel like one teacher needs saving from the system so she can flourish as a teacher, but then the system would be that much poorer.
I feel like the kids need saving from the other teacher.
IS this part of the problem? Teachers that stay are often ones that are just going through their paces?
Why do people who don't LOVE kids become teachers? How do we, as society, inspire our teachers to inspire? Is there any reward for the creative souls teaching out there to help them stay?
Of course none of this is measurable, and therefore can't be rated by great schools dot net.
And how can the government give a school money because their teachers think learning should be fun?

It Keeps Coming Back Around

So John and I were driving away from his physical therapy appointment and he said "Jeez. Thats' a lot of pressure".
What?
"That he said he wants to see that much range of motion by Wednesday."
I shrugged.
"not that big a deal?"
 Well, honestly, (maybe this is the Lucius part of me) I don't put that much stock in other people's expectations of me.
"Oh my god. We so need to get that kid in a different school."

 How many degrees of separation between John's physical therapy and all our concerns about our kids' education? Two.

I don't remember elementary school being any sort of problem for me, but it may have still been a different education process back then. It all changed in middle school. Expectations were very different. I didn't make it all the way through high school in the public school system. I finished high school only by being at a small private theatre arts school with a very progressive academic program. And I didn't look once, let alone twice, at colleges. I moved to New York City, having been accepted at The Strasberg Institute. Then I used my tuition down payment money as a down payment on an apartment in Hell's Kitchen. Very few people in my life ever even think about wheather or not I went to college.When they discover I didn't, they are usually surprised. My education was a very personal, experiential process.

John's education was much more traditional. He doesn't rememebr it fondly. He had trouble fitting in to the teachers' mold for a good student. He did do well in college. A teacher at our boys' school, upon hearing some of the trouble John had in school, asked "Is that what you want for your boys?". 
Well frankly, John is one of the most stable, happy, personally successful,  people I know. If my boys grow up to be just like their dad, then they have done very well for themselves. They don't need to have done all their homework and excelled on all the tests to be good people and find their way in life successfully.

I would like for school to be a place where they can discover themselves, learn what they are passionate about and get the life skills to follow that passion. Right now it is a system that they hate. They don't want to go. They are not performing at the level expected of them. They resist it all. Lucius downright refuses to do much of the work asked of him, just refuses.

He is totally unmotivated by others' expectaions of him.

and there we are, back at the conversation in the car.

For Today

The mystery of my mood swings leaves me spinning.
Yesterday I found a little piece of myself that made a difference. I smiled inside. It was enough.
Today it seems there is no allowance for life to unfold. My mind wants everything wrapped up and packaged neatly to avoid messiness.
There are magnets in my brain with their opposing poles pushing away from each other.
And my response is to lock up, be irritable, and resentful of containing them.
It's as if there is some secret doorway that I don't know how to find. I just stumble upon it every now and then. It leads to a place where the jigsaw puzzle pieces fall into place with each other. I like it there.
And I keep searching. The problem is when I can't find it, I feel my shortcomings all the more. Because I am quite certain I should know where it is.

What Is This and Why Do it?

So I've been thinking about what I am doing here.
It certaintly isn't what I would've called "writing" before now.
Is it? Does it matter?
And then I kinda got this feeling, like maybe (since this experiment started started on the theory that no one was reading it anyway) just maybe, what I am doing is discovering my voice. My. Voice.
I'm not trying to imitate a favorite author. I'm not trying to impress any specific person. I'm not trying to get an article published by a certain magazine with a target audience.
 I am trying to express myself just for the sake of expression.
You can take it or leave it.
I'm just feeling my way around in the dark and figuring out where the barriers are and where the passageways let me through.
You don't have to come with me.
But I do like company sometimes.

School (probably the first of many post on this subject)

I have begun seriously exploring private education for my boys.
 And not only does the undo-able price tag frighten me, I find I am overcome with anxiety about the application process. Petrified of rejection. It's almost to the point of stopping me from even looking at the options.
John keeps saying "if they don't want us we don't want them". Yeah. I know.
And also there is the form they all seem to need, that gets filled out by the student's current teacher. I know how it will read. And it won't look good. "If they don't know our kids and see past this, then we don't want them" says John. "They need to know the boys" John says.
Yes. It's true.
It's just that......
No matter how much I love my boys, I have trouble believing others will look beyond the troubles and see the good.
Is this a lack of faith in my boys? Or a lack of faith in others? In educators?
And I also have a horrible stereotype of private school administrators in my head. I think it comes from tv shows about families going through hoops to get their kid into a school, going to meetings with snooty judgmental admissions officers looking down their noses. I don't want to be the begging, shananigan doing parent desperate to get into the "right" school. I want to get my kids the education that will help them flourish. I want them to discover how to be the best they can be, and enjoy learning. I want them to believe in themselves and be good people.
Public school is pushing them through the hoops. They are falling short of the public school expectations. They don't sit still well. They are not dumb. But sometimes they think of  themselves that way. And behave correspondingly.
I need to explore the options.
Push myself past this anxiety.
Yet another part of this parenting process I would like to run from, and know I just can't. I am their advocate. I must do what needs to be done, to the best of my ability.
The fact that they are not your "typical" or "average" student can not get in the way of me helping them thrive.
 Yes, there is also homeschooling.
That's a whole other post waiting to happen; "Why Eden Can't See Herself Homeschooling".

Appearances

So this morning I had a new thought that surprised me.
 Awhile back a friend of mine posted on Facebook "When did I stop caring how I look?"
 And my first thought was "I relate to that". Then I thought "but is that a bad thing?"
 Since then I think about it every so often. Usually if I am on my way to the grocery store, or to pick up my kids from school. Was it the kids? Being a mom definitely changed my priorities. I'm not sure that's it. But it could be... and, again, is this a bad thing? Is it so awful to feel like one can go out in the world without "putting on a face"?
But there is something in the question that pokes me. There is something wrong here.
Do I not care? Or not worry? Is it from a strength? or a laziness?
And today I see an interesting (to me) arc.

Once upon a time (like as a teenager) I wanted to be looked at, sought after, admired. I was either preening or disgusted with myself. I also was under the impression that everybody looked at me. I better look good. 
In my twenties I hated myself for awhile. Still convinced that everyone was looking at me, I hated my acne (often calling my reflection a "monster") and also felt self-conscious if I looked "too good". I didn't like the attention I was getting. living in NYC was like walking through a landmine of harassment. And at the same time I needed to be pretty/sexy/something for auditions. And I had developed a worry that I would look like i wanted to "flaunt"myself.
In LA everyone is in cars. It got safer. Plus I stopped acting, therefore stopped auditioning. 
By the time I hit 30 i think I felt some confidence in my appearance and carefully dressed in ways that I thought expressed who I was, at least on that day. It didn't control me. I wasn't obsessive about it. But it did still matter.
In my mid thirties I started to realize I wasn't getting the unwanted attention anymore. I sort of tucked that thought away. It was perhaps the beginning f the end.

Then came pregnancy. Kids. Spit up. Nights spent breast feeding every few hours. Huge gigantic boobs that didn't seem at all sexy to me. Survival mode. Weight gain after breast feeding stopped. Weight loss and control to a tleast feel sort of ok. I remember a Halloween party that sort of made me crazy trying to dress up sexy yet not reveal how gross my body seemed to me, and not sure if it mattered.
maybe that was when it happened.

Because what I realized this morning is that I don't think anybody really is looking at me, or noticing. I am wearing the same baggy, old cut-off denim shorts i wore yesterday and I highly doubt anyone has noticed. Or will. So why bother?
 Seriously, there was a moment of "oh, I wore these yesterday" and then the thought "oh its not like anyone will notice. Nobody really looks at me".

I'm still back at "is this really a bad thing". Maybe it's true in a freeing way. Stopped obsessing about what other people think because chances are most people are too busy thinking about how THEY look to see you.
Maybe.
 Or maybe I just feel like I don't matter.
At least not as much as getting my kids out the door to school, getting the housework done, the groceries bought and then picking up the kids and needing to feel comfortable running around after them.

I see women picking their kids up at school that blow my mind. Tight skirts or short dresses and amazingly high heels. Like hooker heels. How do these women parent kids? I want to start a photo album titled "really?". 
And I am happy to not be those women. I am more comfortable. And that has mattered to me a lot for many years now. Comfort rules.

There ya go. No conclusion. No deep understanding. Just exploring something.

Bog

This is a morning of struggle. I am struggling with my blackness.
 I see every nook and cranny of dark shadows and feel them calling to me, wanting me to immerse myself in them and get lost in their murky depths.
I am angry, hurt, tired and sick.
I tug against the bog and it sucks me further down.
I imagine a world where i don't feel this way, but I don't believe in it.
Imagine.
 Not good enough.
 Create.
 Please.
 So that I can believe.
 Move. On.
 Yet Again.

A strange poem for the day

Voting day.
Kids' school is a polling place. But not OUR polling place. Damn.
Need to go pick up Cosmo's ashes from the vet.
Pick out large potted plant for funeral ceremony for him.
Wish we could do it today because it's Dia de los Muertos .
 It's voting day.

Candy

 November 1st.

As a mother of two six year old boys guess what's on my mind this morning.
Sugar.
We have two enormous trick or treat bags full of candy. Plus what they came home from school with on Friday. And what my mother brought with her yesterday before trick or treating.
 Sugar.
 What to do about sugar.
I grew up in a household where candy was out in dishes around the house. I don't remember ever asking if I could have any. It was there  for the taking. As I became an adult I began to believe that my eating habits were largely responsible for some of my emotional/mental fragility/instability. The whole anti-sugar movement was in full swing. Sugar Blues. And  I had a very definite dependence on caffeine by the age of 17. It wasn't a weight issue with me. It was a crazy issue. And in my adult years since I have tried to be aware of this as a nutrition issue as well. Health. Matters.
Of course I also don't remember ever eating so mush candy that I threw up. Or hiding chocolate chips under the couch in the shag carpet so I could eat them without my mom knowing.  My husband was raised around watchful, maybe limited, sugar use and has these memories.
 So. as a parent I have a dilemma. To withhold and create a compulsive desire, or to allow and risk bad eating habits, poor health, sugar spikes and crazy/wild behavior. blah blah blah.
It has been suggested to me that some of the behavior problems with kids could be their diet.
I also have read about some studies that basically show that sugar does not make kids hyper. That it is all in our perception.
I know people from both routes. They each seem as fine as the other. Basically. Sometimes it's hard to tell for sure.
So I try for the in between route. Some is ok. But not all the time. And not a ton.
 Every day I struggle to find the line between ok and not ok. Is it ok to have a piece of candy.? What about two? And if yesterday then why not today? Treats are a sometimes thing. But when? And why?
And then comes a holiday. There are so many sweets involved with all our holidays, it feels like deprivation to say no. Even to limit seems to be scroogelike.
And then there's Halloween . A holiday built around candy.
They were up much past their bedtime last night. Allowed to eat some of their haul. (which is fairly sizable bw). And now hey have a day off of school (nice coincidence, huh?) and I will be facing down the question; "mom. can I have my candy?"
Well, yeah. How much? When?
 And then; what about the left overs.
 They count up what they have. They organize and memorize every piece.
We tried putting it all together in one big bucket. Family candy. Bickering and squabbling quickly tore that down. How to decide what is "fair"? So each one knows what he has, and expects it to be there until he has eaten it himself. 
And, of course this leads to the fact that we have candy here from their birthday last January. There is more there than can be eaten at a reasonable pace in a reasonable length of time. We always have candy. Holidays are too close together and provide too much to ever get rid of it. 
Unless we just junk it.
Today i will probably toss whatever was here before yesterday.
Which isn't saying much.
Being a parent has taken all the joy out of candy.

SEIZURE
(Epilogue. Sort of)


Well, my doc came in and talked with me before I was discharged from the hospital yesterday.
He said there are "spikes in the left temporal lobe" which are not technically seizures, but can become one if provoked. Though apparently not super likely.  I should stay on the medication to control and prevent this possibility. Sleep deprivation is a major trigger. I will have a sleep study done over night some night with a sleep specialist, as it seems prudent to do something about my insomnia.
I said "do i have epilepsy?"
and he said "well, yes, but blahdy blah blah....."
Yes, but?
Anyway, I was on the medication already for depression, no biggy there.
He says after some time I may be able to go back down in dose. Though we also discussed that the only side affect that i had been having - blurred vision - may not be a side affect of the med at all and perhaps I should go back to my eye doctor.
So I am home.
Getting model airplane glue out of your hair and off your scalp is a huge pain in the ass.
I feel like a was gone a million years and not just a long weekend.
Atleast it is behind me now.
I guess.....
Still going for a follow appointmant in october.

SEIZURE
(fourth installment)
RESULTS, OR LACK THERE OF

The rest of the story gets easier to tell.
 I called and made an appointment with the neurologist my doctor recommended. I actually had to have my doctor call and finagle an appointment because the neurologist didn't really have one available as soon as she wanted. I saw him for an introduction, so we could make the EEG test appointment in his office. We spoke for maybe 15 minutes, some of which was actually the doctor on the pone with John getting the story from him. A week later I went in for the EEG. I now consider it the "little" EEG, as it only lasted 45 minutes. I had had very very little sleep the night before and sort of - what I thought - drifted off a couple of times during it.
 Later that afternoon i got a call from the office saying the doctor wanted to see me for a follow up consultation. Appointment scheduled for a week later.
I was in the doctor's office. He walked in the door. We said the hi-how-are-ya-s and he said "so looking at the EEG there are definitely abnormal brainwaves , so you do have a seizure disorder, and you should consider your driver's license revoked as of now."
COULD YOU HAVE BOUGHT ME A DRINK FIRST?
Anyway, we spoke for a few more minutes, he explained he was increasing the medication I was already on, and expected to increase it again in a couple of months. I would be receiving paperwork from the DMV which I should bring into his office right away when I got it. Whether or not they would permanently revoke my license was up to them and they handle it on an individual basis.Then he went on at length about the way the laws regarding driving and epilepsy were different from one state to another, and didn't make sense, and California is too lawsuit ridden in general and do you see the adds on the backs of buses about injury cases? and blah blah blah.
I went home stunned. And freaked out about not being able to drive.  It all seemed very abrupt and confusing. I had so many questions.
So I got on the Internet.
This is where people start screaming "NNnnooooooooo". But really, it was not a horror fest search. I went to the DMV website. And the official epilepsy websites. Mostly it seemed that diagnosis of epilepsy was after 2 unprovoked episodes. And it didn't seem like I met the DMV specifications for having my license suspended or revoked. Yet.
I called the doctor back. I explained that I was confused about the driving issue.
He said he had to legally report it. I understand that, but how could he say my license was suspended?
"I didn't say that. I can't make that determination. I'm not the DMV." Then came another round of babble about the legal system, the state of California, and the rest of the states and their different laws. if pressed he thought 3 months was a reasonable time to wait and see if the medication was keeping me stabilized.
I did not like the way things were playing out.
I had my follow up with my GP and she said she thought after 2 weeks of being on increased levels of the medication that I should forget about it and go on with my life.
So I decided to get a second opinion.
I found a place in Pasadena that specializes in epilepsy diagnosis and treatment. They seemed respectable and are covered by my insurance policy. Things have been a bit of a struggle with the office side of things, but I trust the doctor.
The first appointment was an hour+ long interview. He said "we don't know yet", and asked me to come in for a 4-5 hour EEG. He said if that didn't show anything he would then want me to do a 48 hour EEG in the hospital.  And we know where I've been for the last two days so that fills in that part of the story. He also seemed to focus on my life-long insomnia as very much a part of this picture, and some of what he has been hoping to discover from this 48 hours is if there's a connection.
so as this was approaching I kept trying to remind myself that I could come out of this weekend with hope of solving the sleep problems as well as ruling out epilepsy.
Now I am just waiting for the doctor to come and write my release order so that the tech can start the unhooking, unwrapping, disconnecting process. They keep asking me if I've noticed any events. No. And I even slept pretty well last night.
  I'm expecting that there was no evidence of seizures, no sleep apnea or other identifiable cause for sleep problems, and therefore, in the end, no idea what happened to me in June.
That's just my guess, though. I won't know anything for over a month. My follow up appointment can't happen before then because my doctor is going on vacation.

SEIZURE
(third installment)
BUT I DON'T WANNA TAKE A TEST

Three people have asked me questions this morning along the lines of; so, did you have a good night?
Well, let's update. I have 25 electrodes glued to my head and wrapped in gauze, 2 electrodes on my chest, a blood oxygen monitor taped to my left fore finger, an IV stint in my right forearm, and, oh yeah, i had to stay up until 3AM and it's now 7:30 (or whatever morning hours were applicable at the time of questioning).
Does this question mean something else? or really actually nothing at all?
I think there's a lot of uncomfortable small talk in hospitals.

When I checked myself into the ER last June, it wasn't clear when I would be released. I went hoping to be home that same night. What I have now figured out is that the more tests come back negative, which is a good thing, the more tests they need to do.
In the ER they did bloodwork, an EKG, lung Xray, and a ct scan.
While I was in my 'room' a smell developed that was something like meatloaf gone bad. I thought maybe somebody had brought gross lunch. Then after awhile the scent of oranges was everywhere. It was like being on the Soarin' over California ride at California Adventure Park. The next time the "patient representive' came to check on me I asked if it was a real orange or a cleanser. He said "oh, no, it's a deodorizer." (which is where he could have left it). The rest of his sentence was "someone came in with a really foul smelling wound. It's been really bad." Like bad meatloaf?
 Then they let me know they were going to admit me to the hospital for overnight monitoring and more tests.
 Eventually there was an ultrasound of the carotid arteries and MRIs with and without contrast added to the list of tests coming back negative. And I wanted to go home. My doctor said she would release me, but wanted me to see a neurologist for an EEG. If I wanted to go home I needed to promise to see him ASAP on an outpatient basis.
 Done.
I went home knowing that I had not had a mini-stroke. There was no brain damage. I have a healthy heart. Basically, I am really healthy and there was no clue about what may have happened to me. It was not a "typical" episode of anything obvious. All the tests were saying I was fine. The only thing left, the EEG, seemed a bit unlikely. I was on a medication for depression that is actually a common anti-seizure medication. This made some sort of seizure seem unlikely, but the momentum was unstoppable. There is also another kind of event, called Global Transient Amnesia, which was being considered. Again, I would have had a very atypical version if that's what they decided had happened. I just needed to see the neurologist. For another test.

SEIZURE
(second installment)
BACK TO THE BEGINNING

Well here I am. All wired up and no place to go. So I guess now is the time to play catch up. I've got all night. Or most of it since they plan on keeping me awake until 3 AM at least. Though with everything they've attached to me I'm not sure how I'll ever really get to sleep even when they let me.

 I am here because I had some sort of seizure last June. I woke up one Sunday morning, went to the kitchen with my kids and sat down at the table to have some tea. John got up earlier than I was expecting, which was nice. He started to make himself coffee.
 Now this is where it gets tricky. Do I tell it the way I remember it? Or do I tell it the way it happened? Cause they're not the same thing. Although now, 3 months and many tellings later, the line between them is fuzzy.
 I was sitting and looking down at my phone. That I remember.  Probably reading email or Facebook. Then my memory lapses.

The boys wanted me to move to a different chair. They asked me to move. They spoke to me several times. John got irritated that I wasn't responding and came to see why. I was perfectly still, not slumped, with my eyes shut. He put his hand on me and said my name. Still no response from me. After a few more attempts  I opened my eyes and mumbled. He walked me to the couch. He brought me a pastry and some juice. At first he had to help me hold it. He asked if I wanted more food. I said yes, I'd like some eggs. My speech was low, mumbled and incomplete. He went to the kitchen and made eggs. He brought me back to the kitchen table and I ate eggs and another pastry.  As I was sitting and eating the eggs I joined the conversation going on at the table (my dad and his wife, Monika, were visiting) as if nothing had ever happened. It was like I was just suddenly back. 

My memory doesn't quite pick up right there. Things are kind of hazy about the whole morning, right through lunch. I do remember John trying to tell me that something serious had happened and he wasn't sure what to do. He called and talked to his mom. She suggested the ER. I didn't really understand what had happened, wasn't aware of how truly strange it had been. And I felt fine. I promised John that I would call my doctor in the morning. Besides, my Dad and Monika were visiting and we had a birthday party for a friend of the boys to attend. Life goes on, right? 
(yes, I hear the booing and hissing now. Then I had no idea.)
The next morning we called my doctor. She yelled at me for not going to the ER. Apparently that's not a normal event in someone's life and should be taken seriously. She explained that the number of tests that needed to be done couldn't be handled on an outpatient basis easily and therefore I would still need to  go to the ER, right away.
And thus began THE TESTS.

SEIZURE
PROLOGUE
I am in a hospital, hooked up to an EEG monitor for the next 48 hours. I arrived at 10:00 AM this morning and now, at 2:20 I am totally hooked up and ready to- well, do nothing.
Those who knew I was coming suggested it could be something to look forward to, like a weekend away from the stress of my life.I wasn't in that state of mind. For the last couple of weeks as this event was approaching, I tried not to think of it much because it just created anxiety. "It is NOT as if I am going to a spa for a weekend" I would say. I am going to have 25 electrodes attached to my head with glue and then wrapped with gauze,heart monitor wires, an oxygen level monitor and some sort of sensor attached to a thigh at night. They are going to deprive me of sleep. And the worst of it was the "posey vest". I was told they were going to use this thing with the happy sounding name to attach me to the bed (or chair if I wanted a change of pace)for my safety. All the while being video taped. (I have already resisted the urge to scratch my private parts more than once.)
Well, by this morning I was actually starting to look forward to it all,as long as it meant I was gonna be away from kids for a couple of days.
I also learned I wouldn't be required to wear the dreaded Posey Vest.
I was served lunch.
And, just as I had started to believe this might actually be kind of nice, everything was attached and wrapped and plugged in. I can tell you now, it is not only NOT relaxing, it is downright uncomfortable.

 SUNDAYS IN NEW YORK

We moved to New York City together in the summer of my nineteenth year, madly in love with the city, and each other. Driving into the city for the first time, it was rush hour and there was an ambulance trying to get through the traffic. Everything was moving and nothing was moving. The beauty and pulse of life were everywhere I looked; the buildings, the people, the sky ... your eyes. I believed in forever, and always and never.

 As we etched ourselves into the daily life of Manhattan we created ritual after ritual, giving it all such meaning and importance that every moment was full.

 Wednesday night was pizza (I think Pizza Guy had the biggest grin of anyone I've ever known, don't you?) and videos. Saturday afternoons we took long walks through the city, up into the park, and back home again. At which point it was time for Chinese food, followed by a movie.Can you believe the dedication with which we sustained this? It was like church; "if it's Saturday night we must see a movie",oh God how that could make us giggle. Sunday was grocery day.

 Sundays. It didn't matter what else tried to come up, or what the weather was, or how our health was. It was the day of our weekly trip to the grocery store. Afterward we lazed around the apartment, we didn't go out or have people over. We didn't clean or run errands. Eventually you would cook an amazing dinner. Are days ever that long anymore?

 Our neighborhood was really a neighborhood. Life on the streets of Hell's Kitchen had a charm about it all that I found irresistible. People knew each other, at least by sight if not by name. We had our own names for everyone who we hadn't ever gotten their real ones from...what do you suppose they called us? It seemed like just looking at people could tell you their lives and we read it all like an open book. In less than a year I felt that this place had always been my home.

 Spring in New York is incredible. April is an amazing Phoenix rising from the ashes of February and March; after eons of cold gray slush, biting winds and short days in which you wonder what the sun looked like, suddenly there are buds on the trees and bright blue skies and flowers starting to bloom. The jackets begin to dwindle and there are more people than ever coming out into the world of the city; walking everywhere, window shopping, enjoying the street musicians, people watching and when at home - sitting on their front stoops soaking up life.

 It was on just such a spring day,on our way to the grocery store one Sunday, that we noticed those three men sitting on that stoop.

 My memory of those days is so full of sight, sound and smell....the block our grocery store was on was so classic New York. We walked on the side that the high rises were on and looked across at the row of brownstones, while breathing in the scent of apple pie from that bakery....was there ever a day when we didn't want to splurge and buy one of their pies?

 Anyway, there they were one Sunday, sitting on the steps of one of the brownstones and quietly enjoying the day. I don't remember thinking much of it at first, just a few men sitting together - not even talking - simply being there.

 After that they were there every Sunday. There was no real difference. Oh, as spring wore on their windbreakers came off, and when it rained I didn't remember to look for them. I wouldn't expect them to have been out there, would you? But otherwise they were always there.

 Soon we had names for them, and we were convinced that we knew their lives inside and out. they became a part of our Sundays. A part of us.

  I think it was June before we broadened our horizons and noticed they were next door to Sanders Funeral home. There was nothing about this place that screamed funeral home. It was just another brownstone on the street, so we simply hadn't noticed.

 At first it started as a joke.

"Yep - there they are. Just waitin' to go next door."

 The thing is, they really were just sitting there. Waiting? Allowing themselves the peace of simply just being for awhile...

 Summers in New York can be great. They can also be oppressive, especially in July. You, and everyone else, always said it was August. I'm sure it's July.We lived through incredible humidity and heat, the height of tourist season, traffic jams galore, the stench of rotting fruit and urine and sweat...at some point the whole city reached a boiling point every summer and tempers would absolutely explode.Yet somehow it seemed there was always a cool breeze on the block of the grocery store.

 It definitely was August when we noticed that there were only two of our stoop friends.

"Yup. I guess Joe went next door. Good old Joe..."

 Fall comes to the city, and what there is of it is magnificent. The colors of the trees in the park are like a light show.The breezes become crisp and yell "apple weather" to me. There is always a melancholy to autumn, shorter days and the memory of school starting, that is sublime.We bought our pumpkin from the pumpkin truck people in front of our grocery store and carved the best Jack-o-lantern between here and Nebraska.

 Sooner than anyone ever suspects will happen, the city is flooded with the smell of roasting chestnuts on the corners, windows are full of holiday scenes, the Macy's parade has come and gone and winter vacationers are everywhere. Our little Charlie brown Christmas tree was bought from the tree people in front of our grocery store. Remember the silky richness of the maple syrup they sold? It was too cold for anyone to be sitting on their stoops. We figured the guys were waiting inside to go next door.

 When the Phoenix rose again, there was only one quiet sitter left.

"guess jack decided to quit waitin' and go next door before his wife got there..."

 Our last waiting friend barely made it to summer.

 We had just passed the wafting apple pie scent from the bakery... I was looking up at a plane flying above the buildings. I heard you.

"I guess Vin didn't like waiting alone."

He seemed to have gone next door, too.

 When I think of you, which isn't very often anymore, I think of these times and don't feel regret. Hopefully you feel the same.

 Maybe I'll see you next door.

You don't know me.
I am me. I am honest. I can be pretty open and willing to share what's going on in my life.
I'm not really hiding from you.
It's simply too easy to take me at face value.
And you probably prefer me as a "what you see is what you get" kind of person.

What isn't apparent is how dark I often feel.

Melancholy is a normal state for me. That’s when everything is really kind of ok.

There are times,  a day, a few days, on occasion months, where things get scary. 

Rage and misery hold me hostage. They tell me lies about my world and the people in it.  My world seems different than everyone else’s.  I can’t even begin to break the bonds holding me.  

I just went deep for awhile. I'm resurfacing now. 

I feel things blowing through me like the wind.

wow. It's been a LONG time since I even thought about this activity. Huh. Does thinking about it now mean I will write something again someday? Many years ago ago I was really trying to take writing seriously (perhaps my biggest mistake. The "seriously" part ) Anyway, one day I found myself writing this: 

I sat on that step, book in hand, cat in lap, and thought of words to write about that moment.I longed to have someone say "yes, I've been there. I understand that feeling" I long to not feel alone in my experience of the world. I long to serve a purpose, have a meaning, effect someone's life, connect with them.And I am a communicator. Writing makes sense. More sense than all those years spent as an actress....but something stops me.

Although, here I sit now. I have managed to come in the door and sit down at my computer.

I would've enjoyed staying on the step outside, feeling the perfection of my longing as opposed to the imperfection of my writing.

It was an experience of the moment. Even now I am aware of how little I have communicated about it...The way the sunlight drifted through the palm over my head, the flea that resided on Pandora's forehead, the yucky cigar smoke (reminding me momentarily of my father) coming from the guy who goes between the house next door and the artists studio behind my building. The street was only a few yards away, and others were about, yet I felt totally alone. I'm sure it's a warm day out. Headed for hot. I am wearing a sweatshirt.

I am an alien, trying desperately to have a human experience. But I keep stopping and saying "is this it? Am I doing it right?"

And somewhere inside me I have a sneaking suspicion that there are others out there like me...but I'm afraid I wouldn't like them if I met them.Those who try to tell me they're like me meet with my derision: "don't pretend to have the vaguest idea of who I am - how could you?'

How could they? I don't know...How can someone else know who I am when they don't live in my body? and yet this is exactly what I am longing for...someone to identify me for my self.

for if I knew myself, I would know what I wanted. I would know what I had to say. And I could sit down and put it into words instead of sitting on my step, crying at the angle of the almost noon sun and the purity of the black fur in my lap.

My critical voices want to intrude here.

"Is this suppose to be writing? Well girl, there's no continuity, no form, it's rambling and unfocused and even you may not be able to read it because your typing is so bad."

I am resisting the urge to follow this voice's orders and stop this foolishness,.

It is not up to me to know, always, whether something is good writing, or to be shared. I can clean it up later if I need to... I want to be a writer. So I am writing.

I think the problem comes in when I feel I want to be A Great Writer.

I want people to read my work and cry and laugh and be changed after they're done. I want to be God. Yes that's it. I have often said I want to be worshipped. I thought I was joking. But perhaps not.

And yet even the responsibility of management at work is more than I care to have a good amount of the time. Does God have responsibilities?

I am reminded of a line in Illusions by Richard Bach; "The best way to avoid responsibility is to say I have responsibilities"

That's been a koan for me....what are the real meanings in that sentence?

I am somehow not responsible?"

control. Not control.What does any of this have to do with writing?

If I go back to my step I will long to be here "working" longing to be there on the step.

Longing is knowing who we are according to Cooper Edens. Nice thought. Haven't quite got there myself.

Now I'm starting to feel a part of me wishing my boyfriend would call. "I'm working". See? I can! I do! Someone caught me at it... they distracted me, but I had been doing it. Really.

I long to do this until I sit down here, and then the whole world becomes a fascinating temptation. I can't sit here and write about it out there. I'm missing it all if I do this. I should be out there living it, not reporting on it.

But unless I win the lotto sometime soon, no one is going to support me for just doing whatever all the time...

Hey wait.

there's that new age saying :"do what you love the money will follow".

Well?

Of course this means I need to know what I love.

How does one get paid for sitting on a step in the sun, petting her cat and longing to be a writer?

July 9 1996