Rain at 3am

Sense and Senseless

It's the time reserved for rain and peepers. And complete non-sleepers. She tried for a while but a dream startled her awake and she didn't even know what it was about. She supposed if she thought on it, she could drag that memory to life, but she knew better. It was the face that awoke her. That's the part that's senseless. Faces. The people they belong to, and the games they play to help themselves sleep at night. She really couldn't complain, because it's not like she's some innocent, drifting through life. She knows who she is. But her schemes are mostly to understand people. This life. This side of life (unlike the parallel life she's sure she can feel sometimes, but just can't touch).

The sense part is dirt. Mud. The stuff that behaves with no motivations. She digs a hole. The dirt yields. She digs another hole. The hole becomes a trench. The trench becomes a base. The base becomes a wall...and that, to her is the irony of it all. It's a wall for her little fortress in the woods. It's a wall to keep stuff in. To keep stuff out. She lays the wall with careful consideration. Concentration. It keeps the senseless out. And when the day is done, there is no more room for senseless.

And Then There is Fire

Quite the opposite of this damp, dank night filled with song. Fire was her first love. The way it takes on a life of its own. Searches for food, grows, and even changes its environment to fit its needs. She understands fire. It consumes and feeds all at the same time. She relates to fire, feels it, respects it. Sometimes harnesses just a little bit of the very fire of life to burn what needs destroyed, so that new life can grow. It's not always the most intelligent way, but it is her way. And though she is learning to aim that fire at dirt and mud and trenches, sometimes a little bit spills at in the direction of the senseless.

She Yields to Darkness

And the promises it brings, and the peepers that sing. And for one more night she contains that fire.

People Leave

By Death or By Choice

That's been my mantra, my acceptance at the beginning of everything new. It's been a week of both.

By Death

That one started early, and became almost expectation. Family, friends. I learned to love fast, love hard, and be ready to let go in the time it takes to draw a breath. I've learned to see death differently now, though. Some people just seem to step aside on to another plane. Of peace. Of harmony. I've felt that a couple times and it brings me peace, too. Doesn't make me miss their voices, their perfect eyes, the stories we told each other.

I suppose that aspect of me can be overwhelming. That I accept each goodbye as the last. That I tell the ones I love, that I love them. Some get it. Some don't. I'm learning to let go of the ones who don't.

By Choice

When it's mutual, be it attrition or action, it still bears weight. Sting. Sadness.

When it is one-sided, it is a little like death. The stages of grief set in--sometimes it moves along faster than others. Sometimes it lingers in a stage like anger, because in a keystroke, there is nothing but the attempt to respect the end, no matter what kind of questions there are.

I can't say I am guiltless of departure...no one is; I try to hold on til the last breath of hope. Sometimes I hold on too long, and by the time resentment sets in, I have to leave before I get destructive. I don't always time that well. I tolerate a lot to keep from having to feel departure, and that's not always a good thing.

Acceptance

It's been a week of both. So kindly, quietly close the door behind you.

Food Bullies

Yes I Am

Gluten Free

For me, there is no choice. Gluten is poison. It tried to kill me in the most painful way imaginable. I was ill for 11 years before I was diagnosed properly, and I had to request the blood test myself. The nurse had no idea what I was talking about. My Gastroenterologist wasn't even the one who had that pleasure (he was later found guilty of Medicare fraud and I'm not surprised. I don't believe in most medical litigation, but in this case I'm pretty sure he kept me ill; a colleague of his looked at my file and said "You don't have Irritable Bowel. You don't belong here." And that was that. I had spent a tremendous amount of money on medications with no real names, and time under anesthesia. I'd sue if it wasn't so long ago). So. When I sound passionate about it, it's because the medical profession not only failed me, but almost killed me. I was 107lbs, and I would black out from the pain about once a day.

No, You Don't Have to Suffer Like I Did

Celiac is one of many different disorders caused by wheat--celiac is specific to gluten which is also in rye, spelt, triticale, and barley. There are several ongoing double blind, peer reviered studies on the effects of gluten on the body. For some it manifests as sub-clinical generalized inflammatory issues; achy joints. Others it can cause diabetes, migraines, psoriasis, rheumatoid arthritis, MS, white matter lesions, thyroid disorders, lupus...I'm not getting in to the list because it's not really my point (but I will tell you the studies are conducted in places like Johns Hopkins< Mayo Clinic, and Oxford). If you give the diet change a try and you feel better, run with it! But be careful in talking about it. You feel great, and you want to share this feeling. Some people will defend their jelly roll to the point of the absurd, and here's where I'm approaching my point.

Food Bullying

No, this isn't about "you, you, or you", so stand down. If you're upset by what I'm about to say, then maybe you need to take that into consideration.

It's something I've been coming across more and more as people have started to go gluten free, or even gluten less. Others get downright mean. "Not you, Kendra, I don't mean you because, like, you'd die...but those other people," as though the severity of my reaction grants me some kind of immunity (it doesn't. I still get attacked). But I've witnessed it happening to others.

"You don't -really- need to be gluten free, it's not like you get sick." Maybe they don't get your personal, unprofessional qualification of "sick" but for them, the consequences are just not worth it. And guess what? I didn't start with sudden violent illness. It was a frog in a pot. If I could go back to that one day in college when I realized something wasn't quite right, I'd have had a FAR better quality of life and would have saved tens of thousands of dollars on medical bills.

"You went to all that trouble to get a gluten free plate of food and now you're having a brownie?!" Guess what? There's a pill. Guess what else? Some people have limited tolerance for gluten, so they are gluten free all day, and save it for that one brownie (that they may still pay for later, but damn). Personally I explain myself about the pill, but that's me.

"You didn't get diagnosed by a doctor so you don't have it. Self-diagnosis doesn't count." That one baffles me. Just shut up.

"What is it with this fad? It's just the newest thing." Ok, then let it go. In the meantime, some of the 97% currently undiagnosed cases are getting diagnosed properly, rather than having a fist full of highly expensive secondary illnesses put on their already strained budgets.

And some people go back and forth on and off the diet. Why? I don't know. It's none of my damn business. Does that annoy me? Yes. But only because the litany of complains about feeling sick, crampy, achy, rheumy, lethargic ensues and I lack the patience for that. It also encourages the bullies.

So Stop

Show some respect. If someone wants to go gluten free, it has NOTHING to do with you. It has EVERYTHING to do with feeling better. One of the side effects I did not expect after being gluten free was, for the first time in years, feeling happy. At peace. I had a sense of well-being, I had energy, and my depression was gone. I remember telling my mom that I wondered if it was that elation that people felt when they "found God". I had no idea my ring size would drop from a 7 to a 6 because my knuckles aren't slightly swollen any more.

I stopped posting on Facebook about most of this. It became such a hot button for some people, that the comments being made and the aggression shown was scaring people away from the topic completely. Those who wished to continue to talk and learn would contact me privately, and that was enough. I'm sad about this, because there are people who are interested, but I don't want people to feel like they will be treated like a lemming for doing what is right for themselves.

If you don't like to listen to someone garble on about how much better they feel when they don't eat gluten WHILE eating a plate of pancakes, well, welcome to my world. You can learn to ignore them just like I do.

For the love of all that is holy STOP picking fights. It's not helping anyone, and it's only scaring people away from something that might actually be beneficial to them.

And No

I don't hate anyone who is gluten free for whatever reasons they choose to be. It's your body. You choose. I will gladly shepherd you along your journey if you wish. I will, however, kindly usher you out of my life if you choose to make it an issue. I've done my reading. I know what I'm talking about.

Maybe a Glass of Wine is in Order

Context

Brevity

I tend to be fairly efficient with my words. I'm not the kind of writer who will spend hours describing a tree, because chances are, you have in mind what an oak tree looks like. Your memory gives you a certain prejudice--meaning, I can describe the details of a leaf, and you will still see a leaf from your memory. The only reason I have ever found to describe a leaf is if it stands out in some way because of some magical powers or rot. Same thing goes for a kitchen. Or a bathroom. See? You already have them in your head, some of you even have the color down. That's one of my favorite parts about writing. Your imagination. Your perception. My art is simply guiding that through a story, and trusting you enough to know what a toilet looks like.

Brevity can also bite me in the ass. Like on Facebook, brevity is an invitation for, "Well, actually" which is one of my least favorite phrases. I just don't feel the need to turn everything into an essay, that will get dissected, actually'ed, and driven to nonexistence anyway.

Context

Sometimes I forget to add context to help place my brevity. Yesterday I shared a piece about a young woman sitting on the stairs of a bordello. The funny part is, in my mind, she was a modern girl in jeans and the house was no longer a functioning bordello. It was just a house. And she was just an average girl who had just rented a room in the bad section of a new town, and one of her new housemates was chatting with her.

It was later that I noticed the ambiguity, but I rather liked the flow and brevity of it so I left it alone...to let your imagination run with it.

And Then The Baby Walked In

Daydream

Through The Clouds

Do titles ever really need to make sense to anyone but the author? Or is it a gentle tease, to see if you're paying attention...to the story, to the author, to the sublime. Choosing titles can be fun. Playful. Painful. Frustrating. And deeply meaningful if you know where to look. And sometimes we hide that place so well, it would take being inside our own heads to truly know. There's a reason for that.

Sacred Places

She fell in love with him on the broad stairs of a bordello, in a part of town where only indigents lingered. It was her new town, her new place, her new world for just a little while, and there he sat beside her as though he had always been there. With her. His words were liquid, the way his accent caressed her language, and though she understood every word, she let herself get lost in the very air he held around himself. It smelled of jasmine and spice and all the exotic things that existed just out of her reach. And as she let herself drift in that little bit of heaven, she kept one toe on the ground. Because if she let go, she knew she'd float away, up and up to where there was no ground any more. Just her and jasmine and spice and that voice that spoke in melodies.

That scent. That place. That time became a part of a little church she filled with sacred moments of clarity. Memories that would echo through her life, resurface when she needed their grace. Somewhere inside she could revisit when she got lost again, like she always did.

She closed her eyes. Smiled. And fell through the clouds.

You Should Be Writing

No, this isn't some passive aggressive rant, and no it's not aimed anywhere in particular, though it has been inspired by the ubiquitous "You Should Be Writing" statement made to all writers who Do Other Stuff. So, worry off, it's not about "you, you or you"....though you may have inspired it, in which case, thank you, you've done your job!

Yes, I Know

I had free time today for the first time in about 5. Real free time. Not time spent listening for Lokisdottir to cry, drop something, fall or do any number of toddler things they do when parents eyes are not directly on them (I believe in at least some unsupervised time in her day, but I'm never far. She plays much better by herself when I'm not in the room....that's an aside.

What did I do? Nothing. I took a nap. Stared at a wall. Rested in a sunspot. Thought about everything that worries me. Thought about nothing at all. All with reckless abandon. I looked outside at projects I have begun, and could have worked on, but didn't. I ate toast because it required little thought.

And when my toddler came home with dad, I was very happy to let him take a much-needed nap, because I had time to do nada.

Where Is Lokisdottir Now?

Right here. In my lap. I'm looking around her head to type. She just slid off my lap and is headed for the tremendous number of toys we have collected over the years, and the four foot plastic slide I brought indoors for the winter. I'm here. I'm present enough. I can disengage if I need to (NOT the case with my various, longer projects, which I'll discuss later). Now she's "shopping" with her little cart. So far she "purchased" all of the magnets from the refrigerator, some dolls, and various parts of other toys that she will assemble into something unexpected here shortly.

Why I Take Writing Breaks

My writing is dark. Really dark. It puts my head in a place that doesn't necessarily inspire calm parenting, and for my outrageously active toddler, I need to be able to be there. I also believe in letting her get frustrated before I help her; usually she problem solves toute suite. Sometimes it takes a few minutes for her to realize she has to work this one out (I stop it before it becomes anger). Because I've had time to let the last five days of being "on" nonstop into a void of absolute nothingness. I find I have a much calmer approach to her.

I do smaller stuff, like this blog, or pieces of flash to incorporate into a larger story later, whether or not she's sleeping or away. I've learned to heed the Muse in that respect. If I let her go, she may not be back for a while.

Recently I "quit" writing and it was the best thing I've done for my entire family. Oh I still write. But I no longer resent the world for its interferences. There are no more moments of "TAKE A DAMN NAP!!!" It's good. And I've done some really good storyline development.

My Time is Up

Because Lokisdottir has found the mouse, and is looking for actual time with me, rather than just filler. Besides. It's the first day of Spring and it's time to go get Baldursdottir from school and head to the market for ice cream.

Winter Brown

It's Been A Few

I've had the browser open, sitting with my header incomplete for days now. Occasionally I'd look at the blankness of the page, and think "Later I will be more interesting," but that's not really happening. So, I'm gonna follow a little canoe of thought down a trickle of a stream of my consciousness and see what happens.

Winter Brown

I know it's usually called winter blues, but blue is a pretty color when matched against the stark white of snow. We had quite a bit of that this winter, and I was very happy for it. It's cold, but snow gives me something to do...shovel all the snow on the deck into a snow ramp for the dottirs, have snowball fights with Baldursdottir while Lokisdottir stomps around and watches her feet like the toddler she is.

But the snow is gone and the mud is back. Even when the temperatures drop below freezing, we still have mud because dirt is brown and mud is even darker brown and the sun loves that shit (which also melts in the yard, by the way. We have two Labs as part of our little zoo...more on that later).

This is the time of year I dislike most, and it's usually the sum of our winters. Though the sunbeams are nice, they lie. It only looks warm outside. It's too cold to play (in the mud and poop), but the indoors feel like a steel trap. The kids are antsy, and only want to watch tv on these days--I can't exactly blame them. Yes, there is the occasional nice day that hits the forties, fifties and even sixties, but they only make spring seem that much more of a fairy tale we tell kids to keep them from losing their little minds. Because no warm day goes unpunished. The freeze will return and back inside we will be, huddling in our little sunspots, thinking we can go outside in shirt sleeves.

All The Melty Things

Not all that glitters is gold, and not all that melts is mud. Poop, as mentioned before and after a long freeze, there is a LOT of it in the yard. I try to scoop it, but often enough it just smears. Yay dogs. Perhaps the worst thing to thaw is several months worth of dead animals. All at once. Because dogs love that. They love to eat it, roll in it, deposit it in the house in various ways. A lot of things die on ten acres in the course of a couple months. So yeah. There's a great deal of cursing and dog bathing that happens, as well as disinfecting with bleach.

The Lying Sunbeam

It calls. So I'm gonna curl up for a bit and pretend I'm napping while Lokisdottir is asleep. If I actually nap, she will be awake in seconds. I've learned this much. They have relaxdar, which is a lot like radar but it only works when parents are finally comfortable enough to relax. The relaxdar goes off in their tiny little heads, an alarm sounds and they hit the ground running as if their lives depend on it.