If you haven't any charity in your heart, you have the worst kind of heart trouble. ~Bob Hope

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Alternately titled, why Jenny doesn't write anymore.

The line is Langston Hughes, the poem "A Dream Deferred". I have been thinking about that poem a lot lately. Well, at least since the weekend before the weekend before last. Especially in light of my having posted:

I have this deep groove of thought streaming through my head that opens with the opening lines of "Howl" and rambles like a multi-ball pinball game through vast boards, grazing bumpers for meaning and laughing sadly at the new entendre in "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing."
That was my intro to posting Weezer's "We are all on Drugs". That deep groove was caused by seeing a ghost of a childhood friend among other things. That's not what this is about. This is about me. This is about me thinking about a million things at once and answering the question that has been asked of me a million more.

First, in case you need a refresher...

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I don't necessarily think it does any of those things. At least, I wouldn't describe it as drying up like a raisin. It's a little bit like an old boyfriend with a cozy little place tucked away in furthest corner of your heart but rarely brought to memory unless by someone else.

That is exactly how I feel about writing. To be fair, some of you are reading this thinking,"Er, Jen, you are writing."  Blogging is nothing. It requires little thought and even less creativity. There was a time, as people are very fond of reminding me, that I was a prolific creative writer. Poems and as someone one put it "those freaky, deaky stories." A lot of people, for a very long time, myself included for a little while, forecasted that I would grow up and become a writer. I can see how that assumption could be made.

The thing is that growing up isn't at all how I ever thought it would be. I always assumed that when I got older, got married, had a family that I would have those things to write about, to draw from. I don't though. My husband, my kids, this stinky black dog, all invoke certain emotions but I don't find myself compelled to write poetry, prose or even some non-fiction expose about any of them. I can't write those "freaky, deaky" stories like I used to because quite honestly, those were pure imagination. It is far easier for a 16 year old to write a completely fanciful and fantastic steamy sex scene than it is for me to do so now. Sex is far more complicated than I could have ever imagined at 16. Aside from the complexity of the story, there is that risk that people might think that I am writing about them. Or that I am reflecting some reality that I once knew. For the most part, they would be right. The truth is much stranger than any fiction I could conjure so I would be remiss if I didn't chronicle it. I am not really inclined to do it though so rest assured your secrets are still safe with me.

The last really great thing I wrote was ten years ago. A collection of poetry that I had intended to get publish. It was titled "...then I'd be the queen!" which was drawn from a private conversation, the first part of the sentence was,"If getting laid was the answer to the question of the meaning of life..." I don't have conversations like that anymore with anyone because we've all become less frenetic, old, married ladies. (Or divorced, just so I don't leave anyone out.) I don't know what made it so great. I still have a copy. I actually won a contest with one of the poems.

I guess what I am trying to say is that things change, people change. Some things don't give the same thrill that they once did. I threw away just about everything I ever wrote this summer when I cleaned out the garage. I let it go. I had to.

Sure, every once in a while, I will be struck with some inspiration that comes out lyrically but I am not ever going to be that thing you thought I once was. It's time for everyone else to let it go too. It only "sags like a heavy load" because people keep putting weight to it. You were all going to be a lot of things too, but you don't see me bringing it up in conversation. I don't ever want to be like that friend I ran into...lost...stuck in the weight of a reality based entirely in fantasy. Reality is hard enough for me without adding the complication of trying to be someone I used to be.

So, I don't write anymore. It doesn't give me the joy it used to. It doesn't flow like it used to. It stopped being something I identified with.Come to think of it, most things in life are like that for me anymore.

There's just no joy in my world anymore. I feel sick all the time. I feel depressed all the time. I keep pushing forward, but for what? More rejection and heartache. More of the universe laughing at me. I wish I did have some sort of talent in something. Some sort of time-consuming rewarding hobby. Something that would give me an edge in these stupid interviews. Instead, it is always more of the same.

So here is the thing...I hear ad nauseaum about letting things go and being set free. About clearing out stagnant space so that new things can fill in. So like I said, I let it go. But nothing has come in it's place. But then, I still do this so maybe I haven't let it go. So, here it goes. This is it my friends, my last post. Like everything else in my life, this blog has never worked out the way I intended. And it certainly doesn't help me to change anything around me, about me or inside of me. Nothing does. So why keep putting myself through it all the time.

I suppose it's been fun for the most part, but when you are the only person in the auditorium it is still talking to yourself.

These things have always been the same

I am tired tonight. Which seeing as it is night is a good thing, I suppose. I came downstairs just because I didn't feel tired. So apparently I am crazy too.

Someone posted something Knopfler in their feed tonight which lead to me listening to "Romeo and Juilet" which led to me listening to "Why Worry" not just one but three versions. Wembley '85, Prince's Trust '09 and this version I have posted.

I am in a weird place.

I do try to go with the flow. Be one of those folks who looks at life like one giant Magic 8-ball that always comes up "All Signs Point to Yes." Lemonaid out of lemons, the whole shebang and all that jazz.

There is such a state of cognitive dissonance, I can't even tell you. Just as a for an example...this job thing as I have begun to call it. It's a total mind fuck. People tell me not to take it personally but the judgement is on me. It's hard to keep up the ol' self esteem when you can't find acceptance anywhere. Having been privy to so many wonderful cattle calls and other group nonsense lately, I have come to a conclusion. It wasn't a jump. It was pretty well thought out and it is, all things being equal, the most logical answer. I am not an eastside slag.

I know it sounds mean but it is the one very discernible difference at these laughable excuses for evaluation my worth as an employee. What's really sad is that it has almost always been this way. Despite what people may think, I am not conceited or delusional. I really do know as much about everything as I say I do. I've never been a one-trick pony and last time I checked the only thing in life that was "rocket science" is rocket science.

It's just frustrating to see how sad the world is around here. And by here I mean the Miami Valley at large. I applied for a billing job at this place downtown last week, and the whole I sat filling out the app, I looked around and wondered if I should bother. I clearly didn't fit in there either.

People will say to look for the same and not focus on the differences. It's impossible. I used cognitive dissonance off the top of my head for chrissake! A lot of those are the same people who always told me that being smart would pay off eventually, and by eventually I think they meant at death.

I posted "Why Worry" because I like it. Because I put it on a CD I made for my husband. Because I put it on our wedding rotation. Because I forgot how much I love that song. I posted it for me but there is nothing deeply profound I have to say about it. The song that would be a better accompaniment is Remy Ma's "Conceited". I couldn't bring myself to post the original and I can't find a mash up of it that I think is titled,"I Wanna Be Conceited Non-Stop"

So there I've gone again and proved Bill Shakespeare right about life. Night all...

Tuesday, September 13, 2011


Today... Today, I planned to run and put my application in a few places while Boogie is at pre-school. Today, I looked forward to taking my daughter to get her learner's permit. Today, I intended to use the rest of my morning time to get this house in order. This morning, the car wouldn't start! It has happened before. It's a faulty passlock issue and there is a work around. I spent a while trying to refind it. Sadly to remember after wasting a lot of time, that I had bookmarked it on a different computer. I started to run it once, but noticed that the car was not cooperating. (The light should go out after ten minutes and it did not.) So, I came back in and played "Gardens of Time". I decided to give it another go, and it seems to be working this time. Fingers crossed. It is always like this. It has gotten to where I try to not really think about things. There's never anything that happens here without massive complications. If it doesn't start then there is the whole flood of attitude I have to look forward to, whoopie! Not to mention being grounded unless I want to play chauffeur to my husband. I say that 'cuz I know our guy can't fix it which means taking it in which means getting bent over for god knows how much. And since there is nothing to spare and no one seems interested in hiring me and I can't seem to get these parties going, then it means popping it in neutral and rolling it the rest of the way up the driveway 'til something can be done. Oh well...

Friday, September 2, 2011

Yeah this one right here goes out to all the baby's mamas, mamas... Mamas, mamas, baby mamas, mamas Yeah, go like this

So, yeah, I got an email earlier informing me that I am soon to be the proud recipient of 76 cents in coin of the realm. That's right friends, 76 cents! I know you are asking yourselves how you too could be the recipient of such an awesome sum of money. Don't be hating at the candy bar I'm gonna buy with my new found wealth. It's child support and I will be buying my daughter a candy bar with her father's generosity.

Now, before you go getting all mushy and nominating him for (absent) father of the year...oh I just don't know if you are ready for this. Are you, are you really ready? Okay, that is 76 whopping cents toward $10,289.42 that is owed to my daughter. At that rate it will take 13,539 payments just to clear the back support. Or roughly 1,128 years if you want to break it down that way. That doesn't even count the next three years of payments that aren't behind...but they will be. It's a sad fact.

So, to whom do I owe this windfall? Well, it's this guy http://www.facebook.com/DanielBaileyJr   Isn't that weird how I can find him BUT the people collecting child support for the last 15 years somehow can not ever seem to locate him? Isn't that odd? I must be some sort of God to conjure him up like that.

I would rather not get anything then to get these piddly slaps in the face from this sociopath. (Sorry, kiddo, but for him to do you like this make him nothing less.) I seriously could have gone the next three years and not received a dime. I mean hell it's been like four years since the last payment, not like we were missing the couch change this loser scrounges up to appease the child support collections.

I am here killing myself trying to find a job to help make ends meet. My husband is working his balls off to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads and this ass-clown is allowed to send 76 cents! Fuck him!

I get so sick of people telling me that I should "report" him. Don't you think that I have asked for his ass to be nailed to a wall? Don't you think that when I was single and struggle I questioned why he should be allowed to pay so little to stay out of trouble? Don't you think that I would have taken care of the situation if I could have? Honestly, I pretty much gave up when I filed for an adjustment and got my support reduced. I was making about ten an hour at that time, and had been some what regularly been receiving checks. It wasn't greed that prompted my filing, but when I got the judgment reducing the support by 75%...well, let's just say not everyone is special like me and can remember the day they lost faith in a lot of things. I remember crying on my dad's shoulder because I went from scraping by to poorer than people on welfare.

So, not only do I get to 24/7/365 love and completely care for  this angry teenager who barely ever talks to me and usually acts like every decision I have ever made has ruined her life...I get to deal with these ridiculously insulting payments and the people who collect them (and protect him). Fuck them!

Fuck God! Fuck things happening for a reason! Fuck fifteen fucking years of this fucking bullshit!