As an update to my potentially controversial posting in which I burst the surreal bubble of my kids’ father’s creation – well, first and foremost, I think that he is a good father and that he means well. I do not want, as I have stated in this blog several times, for the kids to think their father is anything other than top-notch. Which is why I have tried to make this familial division as function-oriented as possible. Meaning than, in this day and age, whatever actually works should be the point around which decisions are oriented.

(by the way, excuse any pornographic labeling of these photos of clouds.
I would like people who use search engines to find pornography
to find clouds instead.)

Which I know seems ironic, given my ‘difficulty’ functioning. My, as commented, “impaired ability to live” – by which I meant to say that until I no longer have threats to my primary truths (I am a mother. I am a good person. I have value and my ideas are not just spoiled, selfish, delusional lies.) …well, those basic humanities need to be more well-reinforced before I try to bop out into full-fledged walking and talkingness.

I cannot meet those needs on my own, nor are they met by my community. It is ridiculous to rely on my children for positive affirmation…in fact, to do so would be quite burdensome to them, I would think.

Thus…here I am.

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I think that one of the things that seems most arrogant about someone else declaring themselves the expert on your inner workings is that, sometimes, these folks even have the audacity to spitefully say: “You’re lying.”

Even when you say things like, “I really do try hard to be a good person.”

“You’re lying. You just want people to think you’re a good person.”

What? No, I am a good person and I certainly don’t want to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes…anymore.

I will be willing to never say another thing about it here if he privately acknowledges that there is the possibility that he and I just may have very poorly coordinated means of communication which has led, over the years to dramatic misinterpretation of vocal tonality, facial expression, posture, and way doors are opened or closed.

Additionally, due to differences in upbringing and regional culture – customs such as children spending summer afternoons at their maternal grandparents house while their mother tries to get a handle on a hundred-year-old house and a 10 year crisis of identity coming apart at the seams…well, in the South – lots of kids spend a lot more time at their grandparents.

Besides, trying to force them to have fun with me is really not my idea of effective use of time – for me or them. When they come home tired and fussy and clingy and walk in the door ready to fall apart and fight one another, yelling at me over every little thing I do…well, the less time they spend in interactions like that – being regressive and acting out and being disrespectful to me…the less time doing that, the better.

See, I spent a lot of time helping the kids to get over their nervousness about their father when he moved out. I certainly will not take full credit for the relationship he has with them now, which seems pretty good – as long as I adhere to his variable expectations of proper maternal behavior…”Do not come onto my property or onto the shared driveway.”

He doesn’t seem to see any problem with seeing his daughter tearfully make sure that Mom doesn’t cross the cable wire that is “the line.”

She is worried that I will “get in trouble” –

I will say nothing more about it, ever…if he stops threatening me and being emotionally manipulative. He is incensed by my mention of the word ‘abuse’ – and I agree, it is a heavy term. Nonetheless, it seems to me that to continually threaten a good mother’s custody – for no real reason that is evident to anyone who takes a moment to think clearly about the situation…

It is unnecessary and cruel and my fear of him and his reactions has diminished me as a mother and have undermined my efforts to have a healthy multi-household family. He claims I have done ‘nil’ in supporting him as a father. If he needs a reminder, well: my mother has a lot of notes.

I am, as I have stated, unwilling and unable to hold a grudge. I just want everyone to be able to function. I am not willing to pretend that I can function under these circumstances. To so casually be informed that you are indeed, “a shitty mom”

Sadly, it was I who said those words. “I am a shitty mom.” I had called him to see if he could perhaps speak to the kids about how important it was to not throw things at me or run at me with fisted hands. I said they were acting like “feral three year olds” – or something like that. They were. It was disturbing. They are six and near-eight. I called him for help and he began lecturing me about how ineffective I am as a mother. It was upsetting, I sobbed. “I am a shitty mom.” Just so I could get him to stop telling me I was.

I should, as a mother, be able to help my children learn to manage their emotions in such a way that they feel able to calm themselves down and think reasonably, not react with despair or violence. However, I notice that it seems very difficult for them to be back and forth between two worlds, separated by merely a field. The world where Mom exists and the world where Mom is just a voice at the edge of the lot, making their father flinch as she tries to call the children in for dinner. They ignore her, he ignores her.

When they finally come home, they cry and fight and follow me around.

I got to spend a nice evening with the boy. We played Baby Wars with some little tiny rubber babies we found in the bins at the toy store a long time ago. Those babies are incredibly bouncy. We laughed a lot.

The girl went to a rock show with her father, which I think is pretty cool. That he wants to take his 6 year old to see a local band. She is definitely wired for music.

If he could manage to accept that I am, in fact, a decent human being who needs to be respected in her family and in her community – no problem…let’s work on a solution. If not, well – thank goodness I have a blog. Actually, I don’t really want to talk about any of that here – which is why I really haven’t…much. An allusion here or there, a quote to highlight the toxicity that sometimes leeches into my words.

I am just not sure what else to do. Hopefully, the threats will at least fall more gently on my ears if I have woven this safety net of words. If we have to go to court, I don’t want to speak. My lawyer – if I still have one – can use whatever is here. I have no interest in engaging in any sort of custodial battle…it is insulting to everyone. Besides, I don’t think I am able to…I think it would be ’emotionally dangerous’ for me to.

Meaning I don’t want to turn into wood. I am not a fighter in that way. I never have been good at defense.

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You’d think that if you were going to bad mouth someone’s project in honest living of utmost creative awesomeness – well, you’d think you’d read the darn thing, wouldn’t you?

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Now – back to ‘Art’ and ‘Music’

This painting started out as featuring a great white shark, a wig shop, and a vaguely African looking girl in her white cotton panties.

Then it changed – though the imagery of the other is certainly poignant, especially because the shark dies by trying to eat the girl but he is mortally wounded by her bad-ass crown. Now it is shifting toward something more elegiac and Merle Norman colored.

I was pretty inspired by the Merle Norman palette of mauves and pinks. It is a giant dead catfish she is holding, not a shrouded child as it appears in the small image of the larger, but not large, painting. It is nowhere near finished.

This is a fairly awful song, a triple layer of one-takes, none which are remotely synchronized. Nonetheless, I think that there is a lot of value in experimentation in music – it brings into question where the value of music actually lies – is it in the precision of sound, the circumstances of the making, the earnest upward look that accompanies poor improvisational vocals? Who knows? I had fun making it, the ending is awesomely perfect…and there is even just a moment of ghost.

I don’t really care if anyone hears it.

Ah yes – the band of brothers and small press edition…well, neither have shown up yet…
that’s okay, I can wait…for a while anyway.

In the meantime, I will need to get back to work on the actual focus of this blog…which is still somewhat unclear…but, it makes for fascinating running commentary…

I actually would like some nice musician let me play a few lovely three chord banjo blurbs on their album, so that I could get the leak in my roof fixed before winter and give the Varick Chapel a functional computer.

Dang, they actually need their roof fixed as well.

What’s the Varick Chapel, you may be wondering? Well, the week that I lost a valued friend to the conventions of marriage and realized that nobody really gave a crap about what I did at work and that – dang – it all went to dust so quickly…

Well, everything just broke and crumbled and I felt so sad that my bones ached – it was as if every tear was boiling in my blood. I was weeping.

They were nice to me and asked that I be able to live as I was “intended” to live and that ‘warrior angels’ fend off all that held me in sorrow.

I could not accept Jesus into my heart that day. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

However, the clouds began to look like those warrior angels:)

I do not know what I believe in, other than goodness. Regarding conventional wisdom, the only issue I have with it is that it does not seem very concerned with sense, kindness, or equity.

Funny isn’t it? The way the same thing can look so different.

My holy spectacle is your cloud; Your wisdom is my confusion.

Be brave, birds.

Thank you.