Signs of the Times

I was driving yesterday around 2:45 in the afternoon. Bad Idea. I had to go through about 10 school zones. I don't think its possible to even go 15 miles per hour. It feels weird. I love kids, I do. But I think the whole school zone thing is sort of strange. Why can't we just teach our kids to be cautious? I know you are going to say, "But Gwen, if there are too many cars going fast then the little kids won't be able to cross the street". So what are crossing guards for then? When I was little I don't remember cars practically standing still so that I could cross the street. I had to "look both ways". Also, I knew I could get hit by a car if I didn't. Because my mom scared the shit out of me about that.

Another thing I hate? The signs that say Slow, Children at Play. It's so stupid to me because I think - aren't there kids in every neighborhood playing? Why do only a few select streets get that special sign? Are the kids on Chestnut worth more than the kids on Madison? Shouldn't I be careful even if there isn't a sign? I even a few times saw a sign that said Caution Blind Child. Am I to assume that a blind child is just meandering around the neighborhood without a chaperone? Who's fault is that? Keep an eye on your god damn child if they can't see. Don't try and make that my job. I can just see these parents lobbying the township "oh we need a sign! We need a sign", I'm just sick of signs. I'm on the universal precaution side of things. I have an idea! Let's just always be careful. How about that? Why do they have to have signs telling me to slow down, watch children, don't tailgate. It's like that stuff should really be a given. If you need a sign to tell you those things maybe you shouldn't have a driver's license. That is all.

The End of The World Is Smaller Than You Think

The end of the world is smaller than you think.
It gropes on shiny days into the batter
calling the creeper towards death
on innocent afternoons.
I ate a tornado for lunch today.
I vomited avalanches into the bowl.
There are universal floods bursting
in every pink pill
and homely portal of potato
with eyes of storms lurking
like leftovers and teabags
steaming their wicked weather into unhealthy guts.
Aromas portend whole world catastrophe
leaking out of sealed pots and bakery chimneys.
I am knee deep in blizzards at breakfast,
cornered by hailstorms of popsicles, meteors, and sugar cubes.
Cruel, wicked joke of a globe.
Consumed by carrots
and a combination of carbohydrates.
Chocolate chip cookies are to blame for disaster
crushing me like a house
under the thumb of an earthquake.
I do not pretend to know aftermath.
I only shield my eyes
from nuclear bomb kitchens
from something out of horror movies
from hurricanes bubbling on the coils.
Armaggedon occurs three times a day.
Plus two snacks.
The Red Cross is not responding to these sorts of emergencies.
~~~~~
So I wrote this poem about six years ago when I was, obviously, immersed in my eating disorder. The reason I resurrect it now? I realize how I haven't really come that far from this cataclysmic attitude towards food. The whole process of selecting food and eating it can still be painful and overwhelming for me psychologically. I can still be racked with guilt for indulging. I still equate victory with restriction. Behaviors are so much easier for me to change than thought patterns. For my physical health, this is very, very lucky. But mentally I am just stuck. I am sure that I am not alone in having a dysfunctional relationship with food. Has any woman grown up unscathed? I want to set Livy free from it all. It is not innately female to hates one's body. There is an alternative way to be. How can break the cycle when I am still not completely healthy in my own mind?

Livy Van Gogh

Current Mood: Proud Mama

Olivia saw a Little Einsteins where they featured this Circles in Circle painting.

After the show was over she drew this:

Coincidence? I think not. (I might be a wee bit delusional but its still fun to pretend we have a prodigy, is it not?)

So Lovely, So Lost

Is it just me or is the world freaking gorgeous right now? I can't believe my eyes. I see this vibrant speckle of dying trees, stretched out like so many lonely bonfires on the horizon. Wet with rain, everything is shiny and melting together and it takes my breath away at every turn. Why is Amy not here to see this most amazing of seasons? I'd like to believe she is orchestrating all of this loveliness, painting it like a private canvas in her heaven. Maybe she finally got to take those art classes she was always planning on taking and this is her final assignment. A-, I say. I'm docking her grade for dreariness. Its a bit much with the gloom today, Ame.

I miss saying that: "Ame", "Amesters"...so corny, I know. I miss hearing "Stray Cat Strut" playing on my phone when she called me. I miss teasing her about being a cat lady. I miss being in love with Fall with her. We were always so excited together in Autumn, anticipating the holidays, picking out pumpkins, and baking. She was always baking. I think about all of her things, sitting idle in my father's attic.

Autumn is a dying season. But it never used to feel that way. Now it is hard to pretend it is anything else. I saw a sole leaf helicopter to the ground on it's final journey the other day. It made me cry too many tears than is natural. It is a funeral world, and you know it. Everything beautiful is almost gone, always teetering on the brink of extinction. This breath-taking blush of trees is ephemeral, each one poised to die a deciduous death. Nothing good ever lasts.

Drama Queen

I just read my last blog and I realized something about myself that you all have probably known for years: I'm fucking over-dramatic. I started to look at some old postings and I found some more evidence: I'm always making mountains out of molehills, exaggerating circumstances, using hyperbolic language. Practically everything I write has fatalistic, doomsday undertones, or more accurately, overtones. Its weird, because I never really considered myself a "depressive" personality. At least not in recent years. But there it is in black and white (actually black and pink). Gwen, the dramatic depressive. I don't know if what I'm writing is actually a true reflection of who I really am. Or maybe it is? If I printed all this stuff out and gave it to a shrink, I bet he would prescribe me some really good shit. I love brainstorming on here. I really get the best ideas.