…is the name of my newest blog. Not at all a replacement for this one–it was just created on a whim to celebrate mistakes. I’m in search of contributions! (Unless, of course, you don’t make mistakes. And in that case, I am flipping you off. Whoops! My mistake.)
Hey, Asshole! Hello Friend, To Whom It May Concern:
So, it totally kinda sucks that you totalled dented and scratched my van today in the parking lot. Especially since you tucked tail and ran you filthy coward chose to drive away instead of showing your pathetic guilty face taking responsibility for your inability to drive actions.
But, it’s cool. I hate forgive you.
Really. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really even give a shit mind all that much. If you happened to sit around and watch (you creepy swine!), you could see that I scowled menacingly quickly glanced around the parking lot, but then got over it. Nobody was hurt–nobody was even in the vehicle which is why you were able to run you irresponsible pathetic chicken-shit. I am counting my blessings: my children heard a few new words today are fine, my sliding door looks like trash still operates, and I can still open the gas tank door to put in gas that costs fucking $2.65 a gallon.
I noticed that your paint (since it was scratched all along the side of my van!!!) was a hideous lovely bright blue, so I will find you, you rotten son of a bitch and I do so love bright blue. In fact, I glared at noticed every bright blue car on the road today. I hope one of them was you, you jackass criminal my new friend!
It happened in the parking lot of Goodwill. I was there in search of an old frou-frou prom dress for a photo shoot idea I have forming in my head. I left with a Norman Rockwell book and a Tori Amos CD. I hope you left with an inescapable cloud of guilt.
If you do happen to read this, I hope you have the balls to come forward and pay to fix my van because God knows I’m not gonna waste money on vehicle cosmetics know that you are forgiven. Perhaps you were diagnosed with a terminal illness today, or you lost your job, or you and your seven children are starving and homeless… Perhaps that is why you simply did not have the decency mental fortitude to add the responsibility of a car accident to your plate. If this is the case, you have my sympathy, my blessing, and my forgiveness. If this is not the case, then may you rot in hell you still have all of the above.
Because I’m sure your mother loves you. Namaste.
“Wake Up”
It is a whisper, barely perceptible across this chasm of sleep.
“Wake up, Mama.”
“Wake up, Mama!”
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke.
“Mama…”
A tickle, her breath on my ear, subtly inviting consciousness.
“Mama! Mama! Wake Up!”
Now coming in forced and throaty whispers, too annoying to ignore.
“Wake up, Mama!”
A whining. A pleading.
More poking.
Reluctantly, I draw a deep breath.
And another.
She tries to be patient; she can taste her victory, but she cannot hold in one last
“MAMA!”
I force my eyelids open.
“I’m up… I’m up!”
I manage. And reaching out to touch her cheek,
“I’m awake!”
You’ve experienced this, right? This insanely-annoying-but-somehow-heartbreakingly-sweet moment? Your child, beside your bed, lit softly by the morning light, pleading with you to wake up. Sometimes it’s because she wants breakfast. Sometimes it’s because she wants to cuddle. Sometimes it’s because school starts in ten minutes oh-my-god-we’re-going-to-be-late-again-where’s-my-bra-did-you-brush-your-teeth?
There is another way that my children are begging, pleading, “Wake Up, Mama!” It’s been nagging at me, poke-poke-poking me for some time now. Poet Drew Dellinger articulated it beautifully, and I’ve included an excerpt at the end of this post. What did you do when… ?
It gets to me, especially, because I don’t feel like I have a straight answer for them. Time rushes past, and the small steps I make to try to answer their challenge seem insignificant… not enough. I know that “every little bit helps,” and I believe strongly in the strength in numbers, connection, collective, ripple effect and etc. etc. But what I really mean by “not enough,” is personal. I’m not doing enough. Not being enough. There is more in me to give. There are solutions, insights, pieces that might, when put together, make sense. There is more in us–each of us–more ingenuity, creativity, intelligence, wisdom… Much, much more important, awesome, juicy, genius, kick-ass stuff that I think we have left untapped. Why? Stop it! Tap it already! (I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY! Are you getting it, yet?)
it’s 3:23 in the morning
and I’m awake
because my great great grandchildren
won’t let me sleep
my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the planet was plundered?
what did you do when the earth was unraveling?
surely you did something
when the seasons started failing?
as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?
…
what did you do
once
you
knew?
(Drew Dellinger)
