swings and runaway trains

We all know that breakups are difficult. Especially in the beginning but even in the later days, post break-up. I thought that the most difficulty would come when I attempted to date. I was wrong. Well sort of.

The difficulty comes from the little things. The everyday things…like when driving down the street and spotting a tree swing in some rich person’s wide expanse of a lawn, I am reminded of a night when I was happy in the company of a man I was intimate with.

A night when we walked back to his house from the local redneck bar, weaving drunkenly, laughing uproariously as we entertained our imaginations with stories about ridiculous things. We philosophized about houses with faces, eyes and mustaches, titling the grouping of these fanciful houses, “mustache row” and “mustache alley,” while laughing so hard that our back and forth weaving grew more intense. With the onset of the giggles, the stories shifted to that of my current and very horrifying situation(getting my picture printed in ‘the slammer’), and we romanticized a situation where we just weaved and stumbled our way into the bushes only to have my face recognized later by some avid reader of the slammer. These memories actually make me smile now that I write but the initial memory that brought this trip down memory lane to the forefront was that damned swing. For some reason I was immediately overwhelmed by the memory of stumbling into somebody’s yard(still laughing) and jumping onto their picturesque swing, the branches creaking under my drunken and probably quite leaden weight as he moved in behind me to push. The swinging didn’t last long for fear of being caught but something about this memory just…sends a wave of sadness through me. It happens like this from time to time and there seems to be nothing I can do to stop it. I try to banish it from my mind, using visualization techniques where I put him on a train to somewhere far away but of course, that stupid train still manages to chug on back into town. I know that eventually these things will become less painful, dating will feel more normal and that when a new man puts his arms around me, I won’t find myself feeling the ghost of a body that seems to be missing. I will get comfortable with the weight of this new man as he cuddles me in my sleep and maybe I will even be able to learn how to love somebody new.

I am just learning it may be a little too soon because I have already had to untwine those new and unfamiliar arms from around my waist, murmuring that, “I am just not sure, not ready…” and then the unspoken thought, “bear with me?” Sigh. I can only hope that these once happy and now sad memories will begin to feel more neutral, like just another piece of my emotional history. Then (hopefully), I may finally be able to create new, happier memories that have no need for fading…have no need for boarding that ridiculous runaway train.

my life shifting has created an earthquake.

I hear and feel it rumbling against my feet as I stand here on the precipice of the rest of my life. Or at least the next few years. My entire North Carolina life has suddenly shattered and I will be forced to recreate my existence. After ten years of the same, a month and half shy of 32, I have to change. The knowledge of this, makes me feel like I might either fall through the ground with the weight of my existence and the life I have created or I may just float away into the clouds after the feeling of being firmly rooted to the ground for so long. Both are disconcerting. There is also another little part of me that just wants to lie down and cry and sleep but that is not an option. My only option is to move forward, work harder and rebuild my life while the wreckage still smokes and the pieces are still salvageable. My children need me to. I need me to. I have sat here for 24 hours, teetering on the brink of despair every couple of hours, every twenty minutes and I have sat here for the past 24 hours, feeling the surges of strength that are truly in my nature. I love a challenge. I secretly love change and have sought it out in every other aspect of my life...forever. So why not view all of this that way? I know it is right but all of this still feels so wrong because although my nature embraces change, my human condition tries to fight it.
I am really just writing this because I just want all of you that love me and worry about me to know that I will do my best to be alright and I know that your love and friendship will be a huge help for me to do just that.
So far everybody has shown me that. It is an amazing help to know that even though the job that I just got fired from has left me feeling betrayed, I will always be grateful for the people that it has brought into my life and that are now my family.

death and life of a bird. my heart in my head.

I rode my bike fast, my heart in my head, the sun on my face and the wind at my back. I saw a bird fall from the sky dead as she twirled down to the right of me, thumping down into the grass. I stopped my bike and looked up, seeing nothing but clouds and hot blue sky. I crouched down and looked at the bird seeing how her feet were stretched back as though to cut through summer air, her wings cockeyed at different angles as though she had just paused, mid-flight to give herself over to death. Her body was still plump and whole...a mystery to me. How did this happen? Where did she come from? Did her body just give up? Her life already lived? I just crouched there for a while, watching her wings fluttering in the breeze as her body stiffened. So many thoughts ran through my head. Slippery ones that my mind could not hold onto for my heart was too big as it occupied all the space intended for logic. Slowly I stood, my legs creaking as I remembered that I too was moving closer to death. I felt dizzy for a moment as my eyes readjusted to the open space surrounding me. the hot asphalt shimmering in the sun, the cool green grass in a long strip beside me, my bike turned over onto the curb, its metal frame glinting in the bright light. I walked over to it uncertainly, feeling the weight of an unnamed emotion pushing my body down, slowing me up. I picked up my foreign seeming bike and felt its familiar weight in my hands as I got on, my feet finding the pedals out of memory, my body knowing the way as I rode away with my heart still firmly in my head. As I began to pick up speed, I looked down at the road below and saw this: a cracked open blue eggshell its broken imperfection fragile in the man-made street, formerly the home of a baby bird, its feathers probably now ruffling in the breeze of its newly found flight as my logical human mind reasserted itself and my heart found its way back to my chest. I now pumped the pedals faster, the sun on my face and the wind at my back, the looming truth of death now visible on the horizon.

revelation: I like children.

I always said I didn't like children other than my own. Maybe I lied.
I volunteered to help out(with grades K-2) at my daughters' school today for their annual "fun field day." for those of you with no imagination or prior experience, this is where they have water balloon tosses, three legged races etc...
I woke up this morning and groaned inwardly when I thought of what I was to face today. Why oh why did I think this was a good idea? Maybe guilt over my lack of school participation got the best of me or maybe I secretly knew that it would be fun.
Anyhow, I got there, dressed in all black my tattoos on full display and made my way to the line of parents waiting to their visitors pass. I felt a bit of nervousness at having to be around all of those moms, most of them either older than me or obviously more normal and married than me. Fuck it, I thought. I am here for my kid and they can stare all they want...and they did. I got to the front of the line and the teacher just looked at me blankly with the obvious question in her eyes. "Who are you here for?" she asked and I told her my name and she said, "oh, You're Briana."
yeah and?
so after the awkward introduction and reassurances from my end that yes, I did belong here, I was sent to go work at the three legged race post. I looked over and saw another mom already there wearing a white blouse tucked into khaki shorts, her giant diamonds glinting in the sun as she put her hand up to shield her eyes as she got a better look and realized I was making my way toward her.
I got there, introduced myself and we chatted awkwardly. Eventually I got her to settle down and accept that I am quite normal really(or can at least pretend to be) and then...the kids came filing out. There were hundreds of them it seemed to my frightened eyes but in reality probably only about 75-90. They were all pretty little and really excited. You could see it vibrating in their little frames as they hopped from foot to foot, the boys shoving excitedly at their buddies, and the girls holding hands, their eyes alight with anticipation. There was a short speech from the PE teacher and then they blew a whistle and the kids came barreling across the field scattering into all different directions as they tried to decide which game they wanted to play first. At this point, they were content to choose whatever thing they came across first and so the three legged race got some action. I was armed with special little velcro straps to bind the children together and at first I was nervous. How in the hell can a self absorbed weirdo like me do this well at all? well the answer was apparently, pretty damned well. After strapping the kids together and blowing the whistle, the began frantically hopping, tripping and dragging(in one little boys case as he fell and got dragged to the finish line by his buddy) their way to the yellow cone and back. I watched this time and again, laughing so hard my face hurt, while I urged them on, clapping, whistling and cheering. I enjoyed watching the methods of the boys vs. the methods of the girls. The boys would just barrel their way through the course, hopping and dragging one another as fast and furiously as possible while the girls would hop gingerly along until they got to the other side and then they more often than not would confer at that point and come to the conclusion that holding hands and timing their steps would be more effective. more often than not, these two different methods would result in the boys getting to the finish line first while the girls hardly fell down and they definitely had a better understanding of M.O. I know for a fact that I had to escort 3 separate boys to the first aid station and only one girl. I must say, I was really enjoying myself. my partner parent on the other hand seemed slightly bored and annoyed by mine and the children's hyperactivity. Maybe I am just immature?
At this point one of the teachers came up to us and asked if one of us would like to take over for one of the parents that had to leave early. I just stood there not wanting to move but when my partner parent asked what activity we would have to man, the teacher said sheepishly, "hockey" We both looked over and saw a writhing mass of boys hitting eachother with sticks and flinging the ball all over the blacktop. I asked what we would have to do and the teacher, with a question in her voice said, "make sure they don't kill one another and that each one that wants to play gets a turn?" Sounds easy right? I looked at the lady I was working with and she quickly said, "I'll stay here if you want to go." I knew I was doomed after seeing how she had behaved most of the morning so I said o.k. and made my way over to the basketball court. the lady manning this station looked at me in relief and quickly scooted off, practically running to her car in her haste to get the hell away from the chaos. After dodging a few balls and wayward sticks thrown in rage, I realized I was going to have to organize some shit. there were only boys playing and I knew I could handle it. Boys do not get their feelings hurt all that easily. Their main objective was just to play and get points(in what way I do not know seeing as how nobody seemed to understand the whole net thing) and to not have anybody else get a longer turn than the other or to receive a better stick than them. The only problem with this was that their way of scoring points was not entirely working seeing as though nobody wanted to be the goalie and nobody understood who was who. they were just randomly dogpiling as they all frantically tried to gain control of the ball. I had to keep in mind that they were all under 8years old so they only had a rudimentary understanding of the whole thing. I blew my whistle and all of the boys stopped, looking at me with confusion in their eyes as I explained not only who was who but also, which net they had to aim for depending on what team they were on. I had to come up with a way to rotate the boys so that nobody got the boring job of being goalie for too long(boring because half the time, the ball never made it anywhere but beyond the court and into the wooded area). I cannot express how much I enjoyed this. All these sweaty little boys, taking this silly game dead serious until they just lost interest and dropped their stick in the middle of the court and ran off to some other fun thing. I of course was the one that had to brave my way to the middle of the madness to claim the extra stick so that one of the many boys hopping from foot to foot on the sidelines could have a turn. You have no idea how often i heard" I've been here forever and he cut!" or "he's been playing forever and it should be my turn!" and so on and so forth.
The funny thing is, I still enjoyed myself and found myself really good at cheering them on and keeping them focused as well as organizing this random game of hockey that had an ever changing team depending on the moment. It seemed that when the game really got going and points were actually being scored more kids would gravitate toward the game, begging to get in but the moment things fell to chaos, nobody was really interested.
So the point I am making is this, maybe I like kids after all. Or maybe I just like kids in large groups?
either way, I may definitely consider volunteering again next year.
Fuck, who knew?

the anti-me

Although I've suspected that my brain may be atrophying due to the nature of my job and the company I am surrounded by, surprised me last night in my sleep.
I of course began my dream at work because I had just left there in my waking life. It was the same and lame as always but for one small/huge detail. There was now a Jagerator(awesome machine that dispenses jagermeister) in the far corner of the meat dept near the door where the customers cannot see. We were all there late because we had to clean up the dept to make way for our new addition and in doing so, we also had to be subjected to a long lecture from the boss about how the Jagerator was something that we did not have free reign over. We would have to ask his permission each time we wanted a sip from it. I have no idea what other purpose this thing was supposed to serve other than to torture us because the little cups that we were to have our "sips" from were the size of a tablespoon. As I stood there pondering this and all the many ways around it, my boss finished his monologue and stepped out the door with a wave of his hand which I guess was to imply that he was leaving. The moment the door shut behind him, Cowboy(the oldest man I work with) said,"BAH, FUCK IT" and got out his coffee mug and started pouring. we all sheepishly followed suit and proceeded to get twisted. eventually I decided that I wanted to leave but could not drive so Maggie and her boyfriend Phill offered me a ride because Maggie was not drunk. She happened to have a pickup truck in which I got to ride in the back, feeling the breeze on my face and in my hair. I felt drunk and happy even though my house seemed as though it was really far away in a very hilly neighborhood that did not really look familiar but my dream mind assured me that the drunkenness was the thing skewing my knowledge of reality. The neighborhood was full of mansions and I was happy to think that I was rich but then Maggie finally pulled into the one driveway that accompanied the smallest house on the block. the house was a brown seventies style one story track home with an odd, carport/porch with a buzzing, dingy, yellow light that I could see the bugs swarming around lazily. I jumped out of the back of the truck and swerved toward the door, Maggie and Phill following me. I went through the way of the carport and found myself in an old brown and yellow kitchen where I opened the beige fridge only to find not much of anything but a can of budweiser and some limp carrots. I slammed the door and walked out into the living room where there was a man that I did not recognize stretched out on a lazy boy snoring as the TV blared an infomercial about Ginsu knives. I walked down the hall toward the room at the end that had a light on and hardcore music growling from behind the cracked door. I pushed open the door as Phill and Maggie stopped in the hallway about 3 ft back, lingering uncomfortably as if they knew what I would find.
within the room there was a four poster bed with a wizened little black woman lounging in it, her old fashioned nightgown hitched up to her waist, her offwhite baggy, holey underwear bunched up, showing the harsh shape of her pelvis underneath as she held a black little baby around six months old that was fat as hell across her stomach and cradled it with her left arm. Beside her was a little dirty redneck looking white kid huddled under a a brown, scratchy looking blanket with one hand stretching out and over, holding onto the fat babies ankle. The music was still deafening yet I could hear them discussing the effect that the screaming may have on the baby. I turned away in embarrassment ushering my awkwardly hovering friends into what seemed to be my room.
Nothing in the room was really familiar. It was all ALMOST familiar but just fell short of anything I really recognized. There was a single bed against the far wall, a little to the right and covered with a dingy white afghan that was littered with stuffed animals. next to the bed was the kind of nightstand I had when I was a little girl but slightly different. It was classic seventies, with the white wood and gold edging and each drawer was decorated with a fancy little handle that had carved little angel faces in it. on top of the nightstand was a boombox that was little and pink with unicorn and butterfly stickers on it. I knew something was not right so I told Maggie and Phill to sit down while I found some clothes to change into so we could leave. the room was awkward and small with a dirty dark pink and white shag rug that they sunk down to while sitting as close as possible as though they were apprehensive about something. maybe they were picking it up from me? or maybe it was just something strange in the air of the house. I made my way to the closet to the left of the door and could still hear the screaming metal from down the hall and now what seemed to be a small child screeching. I began to search through the closet that suddenly looked just like my closet from the room I grew up in but none of the clothes made any sense. they were all floral prints in pinks, blues, yellows and mauves yet...they were the exact cut of each article of clothing I actually own in real life. even the shoes were mostly the same but all the wrong colors and sizes. at this point I spotted a beige art portfolio on the top shelf of the closet and thought that I should look into it and make sure that my art was still intact. I opened it and lots of brightly colored papers filled with butterflies and hearts and big bright shapes of nothing in particular floated to the ground. amidst them was a passport. I opened it and some photographs fell out and I picked them up and upon looking at them realized that they must be of my oldest daughter but she was an adult so I was even more confused at this point. It was then that i decided to look at the passport. The passport belonged to Barbara Martinez. She looked just like my daughter and her birthday was August 14 1987. Suddenly it all made sense. I walked into the wrong house. This was Barbaras room. not Briana. an honest mistake I guess. My face grew red as I turned to my friends and told them what had happened. you know what they said? "Oh yeah, we were wondering if that was what had happened!" as though this were a normal occurrence?
the subconscious is a strange thing.

Gimme a break!

Today I spent my time going from gallery to gallery. The day was muggy and I was sweaty and desperate. I feel as though I have made some headway but not enough. I see now that this is going to take more work than I anticipated. Why oh why did I think I needed a break? Nothing worse than walking into a nice clean gallery, covered in paint, sweat and tattoos knowing that nobody knows you or believes you when you say that you can bring it. sooo, I will just have to prove that I can. BUT, for those of you that know my work and know something that i may not when it comes to galleries that may be looking for some cartoony, brightly colored paintings filled with naked women and blood well then hey, you know where I be. There, I have just proved to myself that I can be shameless.
HA.

the surgery fiasco

I knew it wouldn't be easy. I had been dreading this day for weeks. It did not help that the moment my little one awoke, she began to cry in fear. It was the day that she would get her tonsils and adenoids removed. I know this sounds basic but as a mother, it is major. anytime the regular flow of your childs life is tampered with, it is major. She was shaking so badly that I had to carry her in. The check in was quick (and monetarily painful) and then they called her back. they checked her vitals, got her changed into her hospital gown and explained to her how the gas mask that was going to make her sleep would work. she was still shaky and kept looking to me to gauge my reaction to all of this and I had to be a big liar and just nod and smile and tell her it would be fine, no big deal. they let me have one more kiss and then ushered me out to the waiting room
and this is where I sat with my step dad and friend, not for very long when suddenly her doctor was in the waiting room saying that everything was o.k. and done and I could see her soon. about thirty minutes later, My dad and I were led back to the recovery room and that was when I saw her. my poor little girl. her face looked bruised and swollen, her eyes were bloodshot and she could barely focus on my shape and to make my heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise grip, she tried to force her drugged features into a smile while attempting to tell me that she was o.k. as her heart monitor began to speed up I shushed her, sitting as close to her as her little hospital bed would allow, stroking her face, telling her to close her eyes while I watched the heart monitor slow down as I touched her face talking in a low, soothing mom voice about nothing important. about what we would do when we got home and what kind of popsicles she would like. she fell back to sleep and the nurse eventually came back in to give me the frightening instructions about her recovery and the potential dangers. I nodded bravely as though this were something I dealt with on a daily basis, potential bleeding, fevers and puking. eventually another nurse came in to wake violet up and take out her I.V. She was surprisingly brave, looking to me for acknowledgment over this. I nodded in all seriousness while telling her that "my little lady is as tough as nails" as the nurse slid the tube out of her hand and she fell back in relief, the codeine that the nurses had given her prior to my arrival in the recovery room beginning to affect her. she looked at her band-aid smiling and admiring the fuzziness of elmo's legs out loud as I turn to smile at my dad. apparently she was a bit wasted. the nurse came back asking her if she wanted to ride in a wheel chair and she drunkenly insisted that she wanted her Grandpa to carry her. No problem. I pulled the car around and my dad put her in it and I got out and began strapping her in and bundling towels around her in case she got sick from the medicine. she just looked around dazedly and then began to admire her band-aid again.
Once home, I realized that my dad had bought her some french fries and a milkshake(something the nurse said she could have when she was READY) and the little sweetie tried to make her way through a couple of bites of the milkshake doggedly, to make her grandpa happy.
So we made it through the day fairly peacefully, her on the couch, me at her feet reading a book. Hovering, constantly in her peripheral afraid to move afraid to leave her alone. Not wanting for her, even if for a moment to feel as though I was not right there. Ready if she needed me.
she ate several bowls of ice cream only whimpering when the pain medicine began to wear off and we had to wait 45 minutes for the 4th hour to strike. the magic moment where she could feel better again. even if for only a couple of hours.
I kept her up until 10pm so that she could take one more dose of her medicine. she was exhausted after refusing to sleep at all during the day. once she had the medicine, she drifted off to sleep as I continued to read my book, monitoring her sleep. I eventually closed my book after I heard her breathing become even and right before I shut off the light she snapped up to a sitting position, clawing at the walls attempting to pull at the molding on the wall that resembles a door while saying, "why? why?" and then she stood up to half kneeling, half standing position, poking at the painting above her saying, "why won't this work?" I found this a bit amusing and a bit frightening as I calmed her back down, knowing she was not awake as her eyes were glossed over and red, not quite focusing in on me as I spoke to her. once her breathing became even I again I turned out the light again, falling into a light sleep only to be awoken by her ragged breathing, her snoring louder than a grown man and I began to get a little worried. in between the loud, choking snoring sounds I would her breathing pause...for way too long. I would nudge her and she would begin to breathe again. I turned to her so that I could watch her in the dim light. Her mouth was swollen, her tongue pushing up against the roof of her mouth, her breathing forced through her swollen little nose. Fuck, I knew I would not be able to sleep well that night. I drifted off again only to awake again thirty minutes later to the sound of her choking and whimpering and I gave her some water and made her breathe, trying to clear her throat gently and she fell back to the pillows falling back into a fitful sleep. I sighed and turned over to my back, listening to her breathing, not breathing myself so as to hear her better. silently wishing that I was not alone on this particular night. though I fought sleep, I still found myself dreaming. I found myself alone in a house, searching for her, climbing upstairs, calling her name as I could hear her choking to breathe somewhere above me. I found her hunched over a toilet at the top of the stairs, a toilet suspended in air above the backyard. I could see the back of her head as she puked dark red blood as well as the yard below, puddles and ponds everywhere. I reached forward to hold her hair back and missed...it was then that I fell forward past her and down into the yard my foot somehow catching on a wire on the way down. the wire was connected to a giant speaker and when I hit the ground I saw it hit next to me, falling into a puddle of water, sparking with the sound of electricity that was still connected to a power source and I saw the blue light zap through the water toward me as I leaped up running away trying to avoid the puddles as I attempted to make my way back into the house. not seeing any way in without getting electrocuted I began to hear her cry again. it was a plaintive sound, bringing me back to my reality, I opened my eyes to see her sitting upright in the bed again and this time her face was contorted in pain. I looked at the clock and saw that it was finally time again to give her her medicine. I began to get it ready and she was just getting more and more panicky and I knew what was coming if this continued. "Take a deep breath and calm down or you will be sick" I could hear it in her voice, I could hear it coming. She just nodded her head as her hands flew to her mouth, the dark red sick pushing out from between her fingers. I grabbed her up, racing her to the bathroom, my sleep tired legs barely working as she wretched onto my hands, my arm, the blanket that had fallen to the floor in my haste. I got her to the bathroom as the flung her self over the toilet bowl, choking and wretching as I scrambled to keep her hair out of it, the mantra in my head screaming, 'Fuck, fuck, oh fuck please stop' While my actual voice told her firmly that she needed to breathe as I watched the dark vomit turn bright red with blood knowing that the force of her heaving was forcing the scabs to burst. I held her hair with one hand, wiping her mouth with another while still coaxing her to stand up and breathe. Finally, the moment passed and she was sobbing and falling to the floor as I scooped her up and then attempted to wet a washcloth to wipe her face and nose. I went to the cupboard and pulled out new bedding that I set on the floor only to see her curl up on it still sobbing as I ripped the dirty bedding off of the bed. I moved her and then got everything back to normal, tucking her in and climbing in next to her knowing that sleep would not come to me again. I lay there the rest of the night, reading, listening to her breathing and prodding her when her inhalations paused for too long and I write this now from the land of the walking dead...
Though I am thankful for auto pilot, I am sometimes all too aware of how difficult doing this by myself is...but we will make it through. we always do. I make sure of it.