Mary

Long after the kids fell asleep, tucked cozily together on a simple futon in the small, dark living room, Mary slouched low at the old wooden dining room table, one leg kicked up lazily on another chair. Her body sagged, defeated and tired. Two long, spindly fingers spun a stray pencil in slow circles, while the other hand rested delicately on a small mason jar, half full of some cheap wine she’d purchased before picking up her little ones from school. The tell-tale paper bag hid well amongst the rest of her meager grocery purchase. Just enough this time, she thought, just enough. A long draw in, the air out seemed to promise some sort of relief but was automatic now. Air in, air out. The tension remained. The dull ache, the hole in her chest. She clasped her jar and took a long, slow sip, hoping the ease would come swiftly, believing in the power of her panacea. Continue reading

Not yet

I want to get out of debt

I want to get out of my head, out of the business of thinking.

I want to be more in my body.

I want to be here now

What if I sold my house?

What if I became a licensed massage therapist, a yoga teacher, and a writer?

What if I loosened the noose I’ve strung about myself?

What If I completely disrupted our lives again for the sake of finding happiness, a new beginning?

What if my kids hate me for it?

What if I spend the next ten years doing just what I need to do to get by, to make things work for them?

I don’t do yoga because it’s fashionable.

I don’t do yoga because it’s new agey and I want it to bring some deep sense of spirituality and purpose.

I do yoga because it gets me out of my head.

I do yoga because it connects me to my body.

I do yoga because it’s beautiful and hard and requires patience.

Massage therapy, what an idea. But why?

I have a knack, I think, for working out the kinks. My hands have always been strong and sure.

Is it what I want? I don’t know. I’m ambivalent.

Why don’t I want it? My hands will tire. It may not bring in as much as I hope.

Why do I want it? The freedom? The perceived ease and natural ability? The requirement to get out of my own head?

Writing is a “feeling” process, speckled with “thinking”

I have to feel to write, to understand the characters

It requires both.

I want to live. I’m not living, not yet.

Aaron

Aaron hunched over the bar, his grease-streaked hands wrapped loosely around a cold beer. “I tried, I think. I’m pretty sure I tried hard. I don’t know what she wanted from me, other than all my damn time,” he glared hard, taking a rough swig. “Women just demand so much fucking attention.” He exhaled, his chest heaving against his dirty cotton t-shirt. “The worst part is that she always wanted to talk about shit I don’t know nothin’ about, like she always had to prove how smart she was or how much she fucking cared. I never did care about the world or politics – it’s all goin’ to shit anyway. Or she always wanted to talk about how she felt, like I had any control over her bein’ lonely. It’s not my job to be part of that shit, they ain’t mine.” A dirty finger shot in the air, he needed another beer. Continue reading