Inside Voices

The new place is tiny, the smallest place I'll have ever lived, and I have to do it with a 7-year-old that has no concept of an inside voice or of living in an attached home. We are in a normal practice of shouting: To each other, at each other, being as loud as we want without worrying about disturbing anyone else. I'm working on it now, implementing a policy of normal tones of voice at all times, regardless of proximity: If you need me and I'm in another room, you need to come to that other room to get me; normal shouts of, "MAMAAAAAA!!! I NEED YOU!!!!!" will not fly. This may or may not be a hard habit to break; I'm considering paying the nice lady who lives above us to fake scold him -- he takes well to correction from strangers, it scares the crap out of him and it'll probably work.

Kidding. Sort of.

And it's a bachelor pad, has been for fifteen years, and the place is dusty, cobwebby, painted in ugly colors and not as clean as I'd have it. Fortunately, the floors are hard wood, so our warm-colored area rugs and a new sofa should tone it down some; I have enough paint in my basement to make the whole place over thrice, and it's small enough that I can knock it out in a day. Man, I hate painting, but angry yellow will not do, nor will wedgewood blue for a bedroom. Fergus's room will stay as is, a standard "boy" blue, and he likes it and it matches his rug so there you have it. It's also on the ground floor -- garden level, they call it, although there's not a garden in sight, nor is there even a patio -- which eliminates any worry I might otherwise have about footfall. The windows have a nice rice paper film on the bottom half, light filters in but they're opaque, one cannot see through them; there's a standard bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and in my bedroom are what my friend calls "porno doors", mirrored closet doors that are a bit dated but that make the space seem bigger and eliminate the need for the purchase of a full length mirror.

With the money we make from the tag sale, there should be enough to buy a new couch and a dresser for myself; Fergus, fortunately, is set on furniture and the only other thing I'd want is a dishwasher, so I'm pricing the portable ones right now. My mother is handing down my great-grandmother's dinette and hutch cabinet, all recently refurbished, and I get to keep my beloved media armoire. The stereo cabinet, once coveted and a steal at $200, should make me a few dollars and the only large table coming with us is the farm table from the original Coldspring house, priceless and at least 200 years old. Even if I wanted to part with it, I don't know who would pay the money it's worth. It's a beautiful piece and works nicely as a plant table.

How's that for a boring inventory?

Oh, and I'll need a new shower head (adds to list...).

Via Tia

---

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata

---

The Desiderata poem was originally written by Max Ehrmann. It was used by Rev Frederick Kates of St Paul´s Church in Baltimore in devotional materials he compiled for his congregation. On top of this material he had written "Old St paul´s Church, Baltimore A.C. 1692". The year was the foundation year of the church.

This probably made people think the Desiderata poem was found in the church and written in 1692.

A court ruling was that Ehrmann had forfeited his right to have the copyright of this poem protected by giving the permission to use the work gratuitously. Copies of the poem appeared everywhere and it was extremely popular in the 60s and 70s.

Later court cases have ruled in favor of copyright. The Supreme Court declined to hear the case. So there seems to be confusion about the copyright of this beautiful poem.

from Rilke

i beg you...

to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms

or books written in a very foreign language.

don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now,

because you would not be able to live them.

and the point is, to live everything, live the questions now,

perhaps then, someday far in the future,

you will gradually, without even noticing it,

live your way into the answer.

Suicide Fallout #7,611

I have officially forgotten how to feed myself and my son. I say "officially," because I am tired of pretending that it's just for now, it'll pass, because in July we'll have three years behind us with an amount of nutritious, well-balanced meals prepared by me in my own kitchen countable on two hands. This might seem like a travesty -- and it is, don't get me wrong -- but it's also a public service announcement about suicide and the countless aftershocks of its occurrence.

I used to shop with a list, with a weekly menu planned, at least two meals a day; breakfast was always catch-as-catch-can, but even that was decided every Sunday at the grocery when we all loaded into the station wagon and came home with enough food to feed us well and nutritiously for seven days. There was always a protein, a tasty-and-creative starch, a vegetable and a green salad -- always a salad, seven days a week. European style, to mobilize the digestive tract, to ensure a couple of healthy bowel movements per person per day, eaten after the main meal. I never ran out of anything, because I bought all the staples in threes, my cute little OCD that ensured we would never run short of toilet paper, laundry detergent, deodorant or toothpaste.

But with the big bang came a big fog, and aside from some energetic ventures made with Marc (shrimp and cheese grits are a favorite), meals became sparser, fewer and further between. Fast food was introduced into our diets, something we'd rarely, if ever, eaten before, and a lot of time was put into trying to turn a box of macaroni and cheese into something a little less disgusting, maybe steaming some broccoli on the side, and salads...well, what's a salad again?

Initially, I was melancholy about that salad; every time I'd go to make one, I would feel like it was so labor intensive and my heart would be heavy: I'd never eaten well so regularly before Brian, and after he died, no matter how much I loved Marc and wanted a "regular" life with him, that stupid salad would always trip me up. I shared this troubling silliness with him, he understood (he always understands, even when he doesn't agree), and he said, "hey: Might be the same salad, but it's a different life," and so that became a motto uttered when my seemingly pointless emotion would get in the way of the fresh greens and sometimes, only sometimes, a salad would make its way to the table.

Not a lot of people understand the repercussions of a suicide, a decidedly different kind of death. Not a lot of people agree with that, either, but I'd venture that those folks have never experienced the suicide of a close friend or family member (and those people are few and far between, given the staggering statistics relating to the frequency and prevalence of suicide in American society). We, the survivors, are constantly, every other minute of every day, asking why, what could we have done, what did we miss, was it my fault, could I have changed it if the opportunity had presented itself; we are always counting days, months, years, we qualify every celebration with but-he's-not-here-to-enjoy-it and we don't enjoy those celebrations without remembering the last one like it that we enjoyed with that person alive.

And it doesn't seem to matter, at least for me, whether or not we were still involved with that person; in my case, I wanted a divorce, I was no longer in love with him, I wanted my freedom and I wanted to be single. By no means, however, was this the way I wanted to achieve that freedom and now I can barely enjoy it because of his selfish, violent reaction to my desire. There are moments, sure, but almost everything is occluded, heavy, burdening and exhausting; I have spent hundreds of hours on the acupuncture table, the massage table, in the doctor's office, in the pharmacy, in the liquor store, in a chair in the dark medicating myself to sleep and wishing that I'd had the energy to prepare myself something healthful to eat so that I wouldn't feel like I'd wasted yet another day, but I don't seem to be able to help that feeling.

I don't even know what I'm getting at, here, except how strongly I wish that I had done almost everything differently. I can start over, and I am, but the sadness and regret are so paralyzing sometimes; sometimes, all I have to do is look at my plate and realize that I am going no where fast, something's gotta give and I have no idea where to start.

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

For I can snore like a bullhorn or play loud music or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman and Fergus will only sink deeper into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, but let there be that heavy breathing or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house and he will wrench himself awake and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together, after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, familiar touch of the long-married, and he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens, the neck opening so small he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder about the mental capacity of baseball players - and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child. In the half darkness we look at each other and smile and touch arms across his little, startling muscled body - this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, this blessing love gives again into our arms. - Galway Kinnell

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

-Pablo Neruda