Clearing out the chaff
Sep. 29th, 2005 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
temperance14while there is time. Following is on the same theme. Was written Sept 22 Thurs? at 11:30pm. This has been the first chance to post it. Nothing profound. Pathetic or pathos, and better for 15 than 45. But I wanted a chance to let move on in the world. I wanted words read before they disappeared.
It happens it happens again and again.
I need to write. I need to let out what is running in circles through my head. And I sit down to write---and the time is gone. The time to think, the time to gather courage. It’s gone, it races away while you look at other things.
I let it escape when my ego/mind/propriety is afraid to write what my heart and guts need to express. I’ve grown up quiet. I’ve grown up keeping secrets, denying or ignoring truth. I like to write, tell tales, tattle on myself. On naked emperors and masked family.
And I sit down trying to capture what runs through my head in spirals, twists, snaps and leaps. And the words are gone when I try to type or write. The pencil too slow, the keyboard too mechanical. If it makes me stop, consider, choose words, fix spelling, correct a smudge character. I keep a recorder in the car---but sometimes the voice falters or cracks.
And so many times, nowadays, I’m just tired. Writing, weeping, analyzing---it’s tiring. Even thinking or feeling. It’s tiring. And I stop, to rest. And that time is gone.
*********
Quick notes before I have to get ready for class
Per the LJ survey, do any of you regard it as an omission of ettiquette to Friend someone you don't ordinarily talk to? There are people who write interestng pieces, albeit sporadically, and I would to find their occasiional words when they come about.
Does it give you the WTF's if someone you barely/don't know Friends you? Do you ask permission, and offer explanation? Or hope they don't manage their Friends lists too closely?
********
Dad came up to view the two homes we picked out. Good until we went to breakfast. He wanted to know why he had to move. Had to cover this all over again: the concerns raised, the actions he has taken. He remembers none of it, and this morning refused to believe it.
But now at least, he is angry enough with the current assisted living facility to want to leave. Just hoping he does not cause trouble with the director himself, or with the other people. I just want enough time to get him moved.
The new place is nice. Small, quiet, just two other men. A husband and wife, and her sister running it. Beautiful home and garden. People who can care for my Dad, because he will be less cruel to them than to us. Fewer chains yanked.
But the buttons still get pushed. I'm dreading the next few years. Feel as trapped, claustrophobic as I did when I lived at home. Because he's within distance of my home, and I am the one chosen to be at beck and call.
I know I'm supposed to be only one who can make myself feel this way. But he still has that influence. Even through age, dementia and/or neurosis (psychosis?)....he still has the skills---now instinctual---to be cruel, bullying, controlling. And it's surface-sweet, iron-fist-in-velvet-glove patriarchal "loving" that is tightening my chest.
*****
Have to get ready for class. One place where I'm in control, and on top. For the moment. Will see how long that lasts.
It happens it happens again and again.
I need to write. I need to let out what is running in circles through my head. And I sit down to write---and the time is gone. The time to think, the time to gather courage. It’s gone, it races away while you look at other things.
I let it escape when my ego/mind/propriety is afraid to write what my heart and guts need to express. I’ve grown up quiet. I’ve grown up keeping secrets, denying or ignoring truth. I like to write, tell tales, tattle on myself. On naked emperors and masked family.
And I sit down trying to capture what runs through my head in spirals, twists, snaps and leaps. And the words are gone when I try to type or write. The pencil too slow, the keyboard too mechanical. If it makes me stop, consider, choose words, fix spelling, correct a smudge character. I keep a recorder in the car---but sometimes the voice falters or cracks.
And so many times, nowadays, I’m just tired. Writing, weeping, analyzing---it’s tiring. Even thinking or feeling. It’s tiring. And I stop, to rest. And that time is gone.
*********
Quick notes before I have to get ready for class
Per the LJ survey, do any of you regard it as an omission of ettiquette to Friend someone you don't ordinarily talk to? There are people who write interestng pieces, albeit sporadically, and I would to find their occasiional words when they come about.
Does it give you the WTF's if someone you barely/don't know Friends you? Do you ask permission, and offer explanation? Or hope they don't manage their Friends lists too closely?
********
Dad came up to view the two homes we picked out. Good until we went to breakfast. He wanted to know why he had to move. Had to cover this all over again: the concerns raised, the actions he has taken. He remembers none of it, and this morning refused to believe it.
But now at least, he is angry enough with the current assisted living facility to want to leave. Just hoping he does not cause trouble with the director himself, or with the other people. I just want enough time to get him moved.
The new place is nice. Small, quiet, just two other men. A husband and wife, and her sister running it. Beautiful home and garden. People who can care for my Dad, because he will be less cruel to them than to us. Fewer chains yanked.
But the buttons still get pushed. I'm dreading the next few years. Feel as trapped, claustrophobic as I did when I lived at home. Because he's within distance of my home, and I am the one chosen to be at beck and call.
I know I'm supposed to be only one who can make myself feel this way. But he still has that influence. Even through age, dementia and/or neurosis (psychosis?)....he still has the skills---now instinctual---to be cruel, bullying, controlling. And it's surface-sweet, iron-fist-in-velvet-glove patriarchal "loving" that is tightening my chest.
*****
Have to get ready for class. One place where I'm in control, and on top. For the moment. Will see how long that lasts.
