Deployment

Lately I’ve been blocked with my writing… but the good thing about that is I’m an artist (or maybe more accurately a wannabe artist) who likes to express myself in a multitude of pursuits. Like sewing, drawing, knitting, painting… and as of late, I’ve really connected with my paint brush.

Bleeding through paint is much like bleeding through words, maybe just a touch more literal. The piece I’m working on now is simply titled Deployment. My husband has been deployed a few months now, and loneliness starts to seep onto every little creavice of your life. It doesn’t defeat happiness, not altogether, but it tries.

Every stupid thing you do reminds you they’re not there. Reminds you that you know they’ll come home, but what if they don’t? When will they skype next? Are they okay? Are they hungry, or cold, or too hot, or feeling just as helpless as you? Do they need anything? Are they eating enough, and taking their vitamins?

You go to bed, and you squeeze his pillow so tightly against you it threatens to suffocate you, the ringer on your phone is all the way up, just in case he might call at 4 am. You wouldn’t dare miss it. You bury your face in the pillow searching out his scent like the sex deprived, stressed out bloodhound of a woman you are. And when you find it you cry. Maybe softly. Maybe so hard your entire body heaves with the emotion of it all. Eventually you go to sleep, and do it all over again.

Damsels in Demand 

I haven’t been totally gone… Sure, the cycle of self isolation has definitely taken root, but there are always pros – it’s brought back my desire to create more art than ever. 

Writing will always be my first love, and I’ve been working on that too. But the last 2 weeks drawing and painting, with a dash of knitting, have taken grasp of my heart. Knowing so many people with young children, or ones on the way, helps and has provided plenty of ideas and inspiration. 

This one is just a practice piece. My goal is give my niece a collection of princess paintings where the princess doesn’t need no stinkin’ saving. Ariel wielding a trident, Belle with her nose in a quantum mechanics book while she invents way cooler stuff than her father, Cinderella dumping that dirty mop water on her stepmother and marching out with her troop of clothed mice.

You get the general idea. Damsels in distress are so 90’s. 

The Darknesses

When I was a child I was afraid of the dark, but not just any old dark. When the lights went out I wasn’t filled with dread. Instead I was afraid of a very specific kind of darkness. That special kind of darkness that lives only beneath the bed of a child. The kind that waits, and breathes and listens.

When it was time for bed I would stand at my light switch, situated exactly 6 feet, 3.65 inches and 10 full steps from the safety of my bed. I would ready myself like an Olympic gymnast before the next event. As soon as the room went dark I bounded and vaulted with perfect grace into the waiting heap of sheets and pillows. Had the lights been on to witness my feat any present judge would be forced to have awarded me with at least a 9.5/10.

As it is well known, and stated clearly in the Handbook of Rules and Regulations Applying to Mythical Monsters and Scary Sleuths, once your feet are tucked deep inside the safety of a blanket – you’re officially safe. The Darkness, of course, is still there, but you are tucked away from its grasp. All it can do is lay in wait for another chance, maybe tomorrow, when you might fail to stick the landing quite as expertly.

But what do the Darknesses to when the children are gone? They can’t stay put while they escape to summer camps, sleep overs and family vacations. Instead they make their ways to their local meeting hall.

It’s always one of those gorgeous old Victorian homes on outskirts of every suburb. There they stand, huge and foreboding, but empty and forgotten all the same. The state of their disrepair and the thought of every utility bill makes parents shudder when they drive by and their kids point to the house and ask why no one lives there. Inside, between furniture coated in three decades of dust, corners stuffed with cobwebs and a solitary mirror stained and worn in all the right ways to make it more beautiful than it ever was in its previous life, the Darknesses gather.

There are plenty of rooms for them to pick from, but they of course prefer the master bedroom. In the middle there’s a massive four poster bed, what were once ornate and deep, velvety bed curtains hang in tattered, moth eaten shreds. The lack of electricity and pesky nightlights pleases them, now they can gather and talk.

They talk of all the children they saw grow into adults, whose own children they then saw grow. They would tell each other of all the dreams they saw over all these years, especially the ones based on a horror movie and a scary story the children snuck glances at. Of seeing little feet grow larger, and small thin limbs grow to long and shapely ones. How the toys would always eventually migrate from the room, and how nice it was each time their bed was upgraded.

The cribs were the worst, there was no storage and barely the room to lay during daytime. And you really only ever saw their parents’ feet, that were once so small. But how wonderful when a crib became a twin, a twin became a full, and if they were truly lucky, when a full become a queen. When this happened they gained room to stretch and relax, and every now and then a very interesting book would make its way down there. All the Darknesses were quite fond of H.P. Lovecraft. His childhood Darkness always had the best stories to tell at these meetings, the ones that even little Howard lost in the realm of his own dreams.

They talk about how these days’ children seemed to be much less fearful of them. This was good, in its own way, the Darknesses don’t necessarily enjoy inspiring fear in their children, but did it mean they were being forgotten? They feared, each secretly so as not to have to utter it aloud, of being relegated to the list of other creatures and tales that languished without human thoughts and fears to keep them around.

Like poor Spring-Heeled Jack. Jack once kept millions of children awake far past their bed times, staring sleepily out their windows to catch a glimpse of his storied figure run across a rooftop, or sliding down a drain pipe to fade into an alleyway. He ran from town to town, scurrying through the night with boundless abandon always knowing where he was needed.

But then one day all the children’s children’s children grew up, and he was slowly forgotten about. Children no longer gathered in schoolyards in circles to whisper his name in broad daylight. For a long time, he still wandered the sleepy towns and cities, but no one looked for him. Slowly he grew thin and tired, his eyes that once glowed (though they glowed a deep blue, not the rumored red), burned out aand went dull. Eventually he ceased his wandering and another day was simply gone. And there was no one to tell them to where he went.

“But surely you can’t be rid of all the Darknesses?”

“Can we be sure?” A Darkness that sat on the dusty bed asked nervously. The thought that they could vanish, too, silenced the room.

“But who then will watch over them?” One said.

With that the sun began to break the horizon and many went home, hoping to see those little feet.

On Feeding Your Dogs

Pets.

They’re pesky, and needy, and lovable and fluffy – all in one big bunch. And the need to feed them and care for them doesn’t just go away. Well, until they die of course, there’s really no use feeding a dead dog. Unless you’re into that. This is a judgement free zone.

A year ago we rescued a Walking Treeing Coonhound 60 minutes before she was due to be euthanised. She weighed 32 pounds, cowered at our every touch and constantly looked for places to hide from us – all from the cruelty she had witnessed in her life before us. It took months of working with her to convince her that this past life, this horrible life she had lived, was over – it was done, and now we were only here to love her.

I’d like to say that now she’s a good girl – and really, she mostly is. She gets along with our gentle natured lab, but she steals from the counter every chance she gets, she tears up any item you may hold dear (I swear she has a way of knowing which items these really are), and she takes great joy in directly disobeying you. This is no joke, you can see the joy in her eyes when she hears “No,” but decides “Fuck that word.” But she doesn’t cower from pets anymore, she weighs double what she did before, and she spends most of her time making herself at home in our bed. When we go for walks she decides where we go. She’s pushy, obstinate, and vocal – and really, we love it. She’s the perfect counterpart to our people-pleasing, quiet, loyal lab who wouldn’t dream of doing something to upset her human counterparts.

In that last few months the act of feeding my pets has brought about a realization, a routine really. My husband, as I’ve mentioned before on this blog, is an Active Duty Airman. He’s currently deployed, and while I struggle with depression and anxiety when he’s here, it always starts to feel like more of a losing battle while he is gone. The lack of someone to take care of, to please and cook for and love and be around every day takes something from me. Maybe it’s a sense of purpose or it’s really just a distraction from all the things on the never ending list of things to deal with. A way of hiding from them, putting in place a convenient blinder to avoid it all.

Feeding the dogs gives me a reason to get up. Sure, you can lay in bed all day and feel bad for yourself. But when you have another living creature depending on you – then you need to get up. You need to love them and pet them and walk them and brush them and generally deal with them being up your ass with how much they love you. Which really does help.

You have this creature, that for whatever reason, thinks the very sun shines out of your asshole. You’re the best thing ever to them. And how great is that? All you had to do was give them some Purina and throw a ball and all of the sudden you are the best thing ever. You can do no wrong.

When it’s time to go bed, there they are, one at my feet, the other at my side, making sure that, truly, I never sleep alone. You get to wake up to cold, wet noses in your face. The best kiss the animal kingdom can offer.

Pets (and in my biased opinion, dogs) are one of the best things to happen to the human race. Embrace them. Love them. Play with them. Give them too many treats. They’re with us for far too short of a time, and really we all need more treats. 

The Naughty Knitting Box

Spring has finally come! Gone are the 15 foot high snowbanks, and icy death traps! Now the sun has started to stay a little longer each day, drawing out the plant and animal life. Aside from all the roadkill, it’s fantastic.

Puppy feet make the world go 'round.

Puppy feet make the world go ’round.

All this new growth (and a desire to use up my wool before it’s 95 degrees outside) has encouraged me to work my way through my knitting WIP (work in progress) box. I mostly refer to it as the Naughty Knitting Box. It’s filled with things that I lost interest in, dropped a stitch on, or the things that simply had to think about what they had done for a few months.

One of those projects was Inga Hat by Sheila MacDonald.

Mmm cashmere.

Mmm cashmere.

The entire color chart was well put together and easy to follow, but Christmas 2012 (yeah, I just said 2012) I made a mistake on the 40th or so round, and didn’t notice it for 23 more rounds, on top of that it had about a million and one ends to weave in. So it was put away, moved from Las Vegas to West Michigan, and after a lengthy and painful surgery with a rug hook (the unsung hero of knitting repairs) it was finished, washed, slightly felted and blocked two days ago.

hat

It was just chilly enough to put to good use this afternoon when my dog demanded a play session. But now I have some more knitting to get through, the sooner all my wool disappears the sooner my husband will look past a new fiber purchase.

The Marital Bed

For as long as I can remember my grandmother slept in the downstairs living room of their tri-level home. That part of the house was originally constructed to serve as an apartment. Along one wall was a stove, a sink and cupboards, a small bedroom was accessed through the sitting room. Upstairs was the family room. This was for company, the couch where I spent my teenage weekends had been purchased the year they moved in. My mother was 6.

For 30 years the two spent their evenings downstairs. While the family room saw birthday decorations and seasonal changes, not a thing deviated below. Even when the television developed a thin white line in the middle of the screen my grandmother refused to replace it. In her opinion, it still worked just fine.

While she fought change, my grandpa delighted in it. By the time he retired the world had smartcars, smartphones and smartwater. Continue reading