Deadlines & Commitments

Deadline:  March 10th...

Ironically (and this has nothing to do with the deadline), March 10th is my ex-father-in-law's birthday.  He'll be 80 this year.  Wow!  I remember that because I was pregnant with Jake when Bill turned 60.  Jake will be 20 this July.  Time marches on.  And March is marching on faster than I can run.  Or write.


I have things to do and a big project deadline of March 10th.  I'm not taking the blog down, but I won't be posting for awhile.  I need some time to focus and regroup.  What's more I'll be out of touch anyway... on the road, down south, up north, seeing family, getting things done, and writing.

It's been nice knowing all of you.  Thanks for stopping by, reading me, commenting, emailing, supporting and challenging me.  Best of luck to you all in your own creative and personal endeavors.

And yep, I've removed comments again.  Sorry.  But what's the point, eh?  You know where to find me.

besidethequietvoices@gmail.com

or

http://pdwritingservice.com 

(if you need some career advice, a resume, CV or cover letter)

Dear Viggo,

Let's never make a sex tape.

Even though you look pretty good naked, and I'm not bad for a girl my age, I've come to understand that it's simply not advisable to film such intimate moments.  We've never met and probably never will, but if we do and you find yourself impossibly attracted to my curly red locks and toothy smile, I must  insist in advance that our private, loving interludes remain undocumented.  Off the record, so to speak.

Also, let's never publish the poetry and letters we write to each other. If you really love me, you'll keep our relationship between the two of us, honor my feelings and all that stuff.  It's flattering enough that I inspire you.  I don't need to see it portrayed on film or in a published piece of work.  If you DO decide to publish Chris-inspired writings, at least be gentlemanly enough to credit me appropriately.  (And I'll do the same.  By the way, I once used your likeness for a character I created for a story I never finished.  Consequently, the book has never been published.  I chose a corny name for you so as to protect your identity.  If we ever meet face-to-face, we should really discuss this character and his name.  Your name is Viggo, which is rather unique.  This character of mine had a very ordinary name.  I wouldn't mind knowing how you feel on this matter.  How do you like being called Viggo?  And what's your take on names like John or Phil or, um, Bob?)

When you attend a movie premier, I'd like to be your date if we've reached the point of exclusivity.  And when I attend a book signing or a radio show to promote my writing talent, it would be wonderful if you could show up and steal my thunder.  I wouldn't mind that.  Honestly.  (But only on the occasion that you were invited.  Please don't steal my thunder unless I hand it to you.)

I understand you like photography and that your writing was once stolen from your car.  You know, we have that in common.  When we discuss that commonality, let's not pretend that means we're fated.  Let's just look at it for what it is.  We have that in common.  I also happen to like Lord of the Rings.  But I haven't seen all your movies.  I hope you won't hold that against me.

Please don't flirt with me in public.

Yours truly,
Christine

And then the fear enfolds me...

It comes, the terror, as suddenly as a nightmare. Although my eyes are open, I can't shake myself away from the cold desperation that holds me like a leash. Where? In which direction do I run so that I might reach the end of the chain and hang myself over the fence?  Asphyxiation.  An ending to the dreadful cycle.

I'd slit my wrists in the tub if I had one.  A tub, that is.  It's that bad.  ("Go ahead, then.  Do it.  What's the point of idle threats?")  Well, I'm sure there's a point.  Maybe I just want someone to hear me cry, to know I'm scared... to know that I'm THAT scared.

It's debilitating, when it happens. I cease to be all that I am and everything I'm expected to be.  Writer, runner, provider, decider, friend and family.  I become nothing more than an electric emotion.

There are drugs, of course, and I take them.  But they don't always work.  They're not working today.  Why?

What I wish for in these times is to disappear inside my mother: to curl on my side and cry, to let her shelter me with her body, to feel her touch my frightened face. "It's okay.  It'll be okay." And she would call on all the women of the world to do my work for me today, to care for my sons, to write and pay bills, and shop and feed... and wash my hair.

I would cry for a long time in my mother's bed, hear my aunts whisper and tend to my world in the background, and wake up tomorrow released from the pain. Free and healed.

Condemnation, Humility, Irony, Forgiveness

In my professional work as a resume writer, there is very little, if any need to discuss religion.  Clients sometimes ask about using faith-based volunteer work on their documents, and I answer accordingly.  But beyond that, the matter of a client's faith preference and practice rarely comes up in the dialog.


As such, you can imagine my surprise last Friday when a client (let's call him Henry), after repeatedly referencing the fact that "the Lord" guided him in his professional life, asked me if I was a Christian.  Admittedly, I was caught off guard by the invasive inquiry, in part because up to that point I'd had a pretty nice rapport with Henry: personable, but appropriately distant.  


"Are you a Christian?" he asked... just like that.


After blinking a few times, I responded with a safe answer: "I'm a practicing Catholic."  


Henry's next remark nearly floored me.


"Oh.  Catholic.  Well, so you're not a Christian, then.  You're an idol worshiper.  Catholics are going straight to hell."




I smiled at him as if he'd just told an off-colored joke. An obvious ignoramus, this man was in MY home, sitting on MY couch less than four feet from the crucifix on MY wall. At that moment I could perfectly visualize in my mind a pair of scales.  Outrage versus silence.  He hadn't yet paid me, so I attempted to derail the conversation while still maintaining my dignity.


"Henry," I said, "For one, that's really narrow.  And for another, you don't want to get into a religious debate with me."


I was relieved that he backed down so quickly. 




Henry runs a manufacturing facility across town.  Right about the time we wrapped up our professional conversation, my son Jake appeared.  Henry and I had spoken vaguely about our families during "small talk" moments over the course of our earlier meetings.  As such, he was aware that Jake was laid off from his last job.  He offered Jake a position in the plant right there on the spot, which Jake accepted.  (And I silently rejoiced.  Jake has been dangerously aimless for more than a month now.)


We were supposed to appear at Henry's office at 9am this morning to deal with the document end of things -- birth certificates, employee manuals, agreements, etc.  I nearly had a heart attack when I remembered the appointment  twenty minutes AFTER 9am as Jake lay sleeping in his bedroom.




Again, I visualized the damned scales.  I contemplated what kind of disaster might excuse such an enormous oversight.  (Jake should have set his own alarm clock!  I can't remember everything and shouldn't have to!)


Anyway, I went with the truth.  "Hello, Henry...?"


He was very diplomatic. 


Jake can make his apologies tomorrow.  He'll get himself up and ready, then take the bus across town.  




I'm astounded and grateful at compassion, understanding, and humility. On one hand it is SO difficult to admit a stupid mistake or a weakness.  But it does restore my faith in humanity when we cut each other some slack. Although I do have misgivings about Jake being told by his boss (at some point in their association) that he's going to hell.  But Jake knows how to speak his mind, so...

"I was so lucky to have loved you"

I believe he meant those words when he wrote them, even though he was in the very act of betraying and discrediting me as I read them.  He was lucky.  To have loved me.  He did not say he was lucky to have been loved by me.


I noticed the past tense even then -- "loved" -- but I should have perceived the meaning of it more clearly. I should have known then that he meant "loved" in its entirety instead of "loved" from merely a romantic perspective. Some people aren't capable of friendship.


I knew when we met that he was one of those who love intensely and completely for a time and then go away, but I naively believed we had a genuine connection that amounted to more than romance. There was so much to us that seemed to be "fated."  There was so much about us that was uncanny and timeless.  As such, I was sure we'd gradually  move past the romantic tension on to something more meaningful, more permanent.  I believed that and risked so much to make it happen.


Now that I've learned otherwise, now that I've learned and accepted the truth of the matter, I still can't fathom  the concept that every precious thing I shared with him was either discarded, passed on or forgotten.  So many things.  So much heart and soul.  I still can't believe that I let someone in so deeply, and where it was life changing for me, it was meaningless to him.


"I was so lucky to have loved you," he said.  Loved you.




Do I sound as if I think I'm blameless?  I know where I went wrong and that I was no angel.  I point the finger accusingly at him for betraying me, all the while knowing that I betrayed others to be with him.  When I think back to the ugliness that emerged from me, the lurid passion that's supposed to be so sacred when one commits to another...  I betrayed the other one I was with at the time.  And the one he's with still.  We cheated and lied together.  So I know I'm no saint.  And in many ways I got what I deserved.  What comes around, goes around, and all that stuff.


The big difference between us, though, is that it tortured my conscience.  It still does.


But the romance ended long ago, many months before the friendship.  Our physical time together was very fleeting compared to the other aspect of us.  What's hurt most about the betrayal is the knowledge that the sacrifices made for THAT were a waste.


I can take inventory of what I gave and lost, but can he?  Is there any regret in him?  Certainly the explosive ending was upsetting to his mind, but I suspect it was the threat of exposure more than the loss of love that stung him most.  I meant it to sting.  I made sure that it stung.  And I struck at him with my anger and outrage enough times to cause an allergic reaction.


But what of his conscience and heart?  He was lucky to have loved me, he said long ago.  What does that mean?  And what does it not mean?  It would be more accurate to say he was lucky I loved him.  Because he was.  He was lucky.  I loved him as a friend loves a friend. But I suspect that if he doesn't know what friendship means, he didn't know how lucky he was, and how unlucky he is to have lost me.


"I guess I tell you this so you know how beautiful you were and are to me... We're gonna do just fine, huh. Somehow, the shattering let us fit ourselves back together and not even know it.  Now we know that everything will be all right."


Yes, everything will be all right. The shattering did let us fit ourselves back together. Our selves. And everything will be all right.  

The Face of the Recession

Earlier today I stopped at the post office to mail a box of books to my nephew. I used a padded envelope from my bulk supply of cheap packaging materials; I declined delivery confirmation and insurance options to save money, and I went with parcel post instead of priority mail because it was cheaper.   The charge came to $9.95.  My debit card was declined.

But fear not.  It turned out to be a glitch in the computer system. My bank is right down the block, so I stopped in after slinking away in shame from the post office. I may not be rolling in it, but there was more than enough money in my account to cover the postage. They couldn't explain what happened. I'll try again tomorrow.

Nonetheless, I am in a perpetual state of desperate frugality. I love my work and business has improved dramatically over the last few months, but I can't seem to get ahead.  I'm pretty sure my financial challenges have everything to do with the fact that I'm a single parent with a "special needs" kid.  Such is life. When I need more income, I increase my marketing efforts.  This month I need more income.

For those of you who don't know, I'm a resume writer.  I have never used my blog as a shameless plug for business, but I've decided it's time. So what if you've seen me in my skivvies and know of my heartbreaks and struggles.  Resume writing is an intimate process, so maybe it's only fair that potential clients know a little about my shortcomings and vulnerabilities.

As long as they know I'm a good writer.  And that I know how to deal decisively with a wedgie.

If you or someone you know is in need of a resume, CV or cover letter, please free free to visit my Web site:

Professional Designs Writing Service

Girls and Baggage

You know, I don't carry a purse. Once in a while I TRY to carry a purse, but I just can't make it work for me. Books, pens, dictionarys, drugs, and all my other stuff... it just won't fit in a cute little handbag.  And aside from that, I just hate purses. I don't know why. I dislike purses so much that on those occasions when I'm forced to carry a purse, I can't bring myself to refer to it as "my purse." What the heck? Did some bully beat me up with a purse when I was two, and now I'm scarred for life against purses?

Anyhow, all my stuff fits in a knapsack, which I refer to as "my backpack."  A leather Jansport I've had since college. It's older than both my kids and when I kick the bucket, there's probably going to be a legal dispute about who gets the backpack. (For the record, it should be cremated with me. Why the hell not? It might as well be an appendage.)

Point? You're wondering what's my point? Well, we writer types... we're always making analogies, comparing  mundane stuff to life, so I think I'm attempting to make an analogy of my backpack, the baggage in it, the loyalty factor (it and me), the trust thing... all that philosophical horse hockey of which I'm so fond. I'm attempting this analogy as a way of apologizing or explaining to some of my offput friends (of late) why I'm being so...  whatever it is I am right now.  Insultingly cautious?  Impulsively impossible? Aloof? A bitch?

Okay, so yes... I've been recently wounded. But does that excuse rudeness? Being angry in itself pisses me off because it's so defeatist! It's like saying, "Hey! Look at me! I'm a victim! I give in to the hurt because life has rattled my cage, and I, the delicate flower, deserve to be upset. And you, the rest of the world, should be equally as outraged!"

Still, no matter what logic I use on myself, I cannot shake it, this personal isolationism.

On one hand, even as I'm IN THE ACT of writing some accusatory remarks that repel and insult would-be friends, I'm thinking, "Is it really necessary to be hostile to people who are just trying to be nice, make conversation? They're not ALL jerks, you know, Chris."

But at the same time, my rationale for rudeness is, "I've got friends who know who I am because they've taken the time to know who I am. New friends are nice to have, but maybe I'm not in the best frame of mind for that right now."

Legitimate leeriness... reasonable reticence, to be sure. But there has to be a more graceful way of going about it. Unrelenting anger, powerful as it feels, is so draining, not to mention alienating. What's more, it's not who I've ever been or who I want to be. I can't stand feeling suspicious of every person who wants to have a conversation. And furthermore, when my trusted friends tell me I'm being oversensitive, I seriously want to kick them in the shins.

Wait a minute. What's this got to do with my backpack? Let's see... baggage, storing and using stuff, tools for survival, steadfast leathery companions, conflict between demure and outspoken...  I'm sure there's a connection somewhere.

Comment at your own risk: besidethequietvoices@gmail.com