Saltshaker

Posted on August 7 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I can’t just turn feelings off
          as if they never existed,
     or pretend like they weren’t
                     logical
               to feel in the first place.

I was probably overreacting
                     overthinking it
                     being petty.
But logic wasn’t absent;
    it was linked
               to.every.feeling.

I felt like my dream
            my future
       was being                pulled
          from underneath me,
               yet somehow
                     I was still standing,
                         like a
                               w
                                   o
                                   b
                               b
                                    l
                                   i
                                n
                                      g
                            saltshaker
                                 suddenly losing its tablecloth –
                                        while the table
                                        and most of the things on it
                                                       never
                                                       moved.

It was never mine,
     but it felt like it was stolen
                             while I watched
                                       every
                                       move.

After some distance of time,
          I can see
               it wasn’t my dream,
                    but it had a similar shape.
                              (I think.)

I’m not even sure what my dream is, exactly.
     I only get sporadic
                      inklings
                           of what it could be.

But just before the shape of it disappeared,
          it seemed close
                    and                               unreachable.

Attention

Posted on August 4 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I have read studies
    and heard various views
          about tactile learning,
                  but I wasn’t able to identify it in myself
                                 until recently.

I probably appear to be ignoring
          the world around me
               as I doodle
                    badly sketch
                    slowly move the pen
                         in endless circles
                                       in the margins.
     But if I am doing something
               tactile,
           I am usually paying more attention
                     than if I sit in my chair
                          looking forward,
                          hands in my lap.

Social conventions do tend to dictate
     that I look up,
            attempt to make some version of eye contact,
            nod at appropriate
                      irregular intervals
            and maybe even smile slightly.
            Blinking once-in-a-while is also helpful.

My defensive side
          feels the need to

                  interject

                      that I do listen
                                  pay attention
                                  engage.
                             I just pay
                                  better attention
                                       if I don’t have to waste my bandwidth
                                            on required mannerisms,
                                                 and I allow myself some room
                                                                to listen
                                                                   learn
                                                                   absorb.

If I sit quietly,
     hands folded or by my side,
     look forward
     and watch
          a teacher
             pastor,
             TV show or
             movie,
                    my recall tends to be very
                                   limited
                          because my mind wanders
                                                   shifts
                                                   sneaks
                                                        into other areas.

I have figured out
     that holding something
          like a pen – and using it beyond just taking notes –
                         helps me focus
                         stay in the now
                  and retain the information later,
                              meaning,
                         doodling
                         actually helps me
                         pay attention.

During Academy* last semester,
     I tried setting up a laptop on the kitchen counter
          with a notebook next to it
                so I could take notes,
                          and make dinner
                               while listening to the podcast.
          I found that when I was standing up
               and doing something else
                    that was mostly mindless,
          I paid attention the entire time.

When I did miss something
     because a pot started to boil
     or I got ice from the freezer,
          I noticed I missed something,
                    scrolled back a few seconds and
                    continued.
          I was so engaged in what I was doing,
               that I was paying attention to
                          everything.

All of this would have been very useful information
              when I was in school,
     but of course, it took an elective
                                    no credit
                                    voluntary course at church
                                              to figure this out.

At least it should come in handy
     for next semester’s Academy.

And maybe
     I should be on the lookout
               for a stand-up desk.

 

*Academy is a six-semester class at our church where we study the Bible and theology.

(Un)interesting

Posted on August 3 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I keep trying to write something interesting
                                            fun
                                            cute
                                            whatever,
                        but I am very uncreative tonight.
                        (More than just tonight, I think.)

There are lots of beginnings and
                      stop-starts,
                                but nothing actually goes
                                          anywhere.

Everything just comes across cheesy
                                       silly
                                       flat
                                       regular
                                       boring
                       completely uninteresting.

And I just can’t force the words
          to come out right –
          to explain the jumbled mess
                         in my head.

Ten

Posted on July 26 2012 by J.W. Richmond

Tomorrow is Jeff’s and my tenth anniversary.

I keep trying
          to come up with something meaningful
                                               clever
                                               witty
                                               inspiring
                                                    to write about it
                                                                        us.

But I just can’t get it right.

Part of why I keep hitting walls (I think)
          is that this
               is
             a big deal.

It’s a number.
     But it’s also a milestone.
It’s huge
     and significant,
          while, at the same time,
               another day just
                              passes.

It doesn’t seem like ten, and maybe that’s part of it.
     It feels like five
               or maybe six.

We are going back to where we met
     to visit old haunts and
        explore new ones.
We are planning to zipline
     through the redwoods
               and sleep right next to the ocean.

Minus the drive, I am excited for all of it.
              (I do love driving across the Golden Gate, though –
                     especially the no-fee direction.)

We aren’t perfect
     and aren’t always in the best place.
We have our issues and
                   difficulties,
                          like any other couple.
We aren’t experts.
          But we have made it a long way.

I want
  need
     to recognize that,
        celebrate it
        enjoy it.

But I would also like to remain in the
                       tension
     of our durability (that He has given us so far)
                       and
            still sort of being new at this –
            still learning new things about each other,
                       and somehow allow ourselves
                            to feel that strange sense of
                                         security
                                  alongside the
                                         excitement and
                                         enjoyment of each other.

I still want to feel the wonder I felt
          when we first got together
                         and
          feel the reassurance
               of a ten-year commitment.

I want to be fearless
                 courageous
                 safe
                 loved
                 secure
                      and
                 still have the butterflies.

And I don’t want that to be a fantasy.

I want that to be us.

Self

Posted on July 21 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I have spent a lot of time indoors the last year-and-a-half. After a run-in with pure evil antibiotics, the sun has decided not to play nice with my skin, and I had to put it on a – long – time-out.

While I wait (and wait… and wait…) for full healing
     as I try not aggravate it further,
               my sense of style
                               self
                               comfort
                                    has been pushed      aside.

Sometimes I almost feel like a different person.

Maybe my “style” was more than just general know (not)-how. Maybe my clothes were too important to my sense of self, and I am supposed to be learning some lesson from all of this. Like “beauty is only…” Well, so much for that one. I think all I’m (re)learning so far is how much I hate Fresno summers.

Shorts and t-shirts were about comfort, but they were also just me. I dressed how I was comfortable, not the way other people preferred or expected. Just casual, laid-back, easy-going. The t-shirt sleeves lengthened in the cold, and when I absolutely had to, I would deal with pants instead of shorts.

Now, pants are essential to cover up my skin, and I have found through trial and error that many button-up shirts are cooler in the hellish Fresno heat than long-sleeve t-shirts.

I feel very stiff
              boring
              rigid
              awkward.
          And I’m not even in a dress!

I have no good way to end this, no wonderful epiphany or perfect Bible verse to uplift and inspire.

My sense of self is
     supposed to be
                    a denial
                          of self
          because I should find my identity
                          in Him.

I believe that.
I’m just not always so great
                         at living it.

But couldn’t I at least learn to live it while wearing shorts and a t-shirt?

Rice*

Posted on July 20 2012 by J.W. Richmond

He never laid a finger on her, he said.

Technically, he was right. He was very careful with his words.

The forearm to her throat as he pushed her into the corner told a different story. She cringed from the pain, the fear, his whisky breath. She tried to turn her head away from him, but he had her locked there, his reddened eyes staring her down as if it were a contest she would never win.

Her throat burned when she swallowed, the spit forcing its way through the tiny airway he left.

His lips met hers and he forced himself closer to the wall, pushing her even further against it. If the fear hadn’t been so strong, her stomach might have taken over. She lurched a bit, and he pushed his other fist against her stomach.

No!

The violence emanated from his eyes. They were normally a strange shade of green, but all she saw now was black.

He twisted his fist and she sucked the air in loudly. “You leave,” he said, “and it’s done. It will be your fault.”

Her mouth trembled slightly before she bit her bottom lip to stop it. She closed her eyes to steady herself. It felt like minutes, but she had only counted to two in her head. She couldn’t let him catch her off guard in any way.

He eased his elbow, and her throat opened up just slightly. She breathed in as deeply as she could and exhaled louder than she meant to. His eyes were still fixed on hers, and she caught him wink at her as he let go, stepping back a bit.

“When’s dinner?” he grumbled. “Are you really going to keep me waiting?”

She fought to think after her lack of oxygen. Food, dinner, kitchen. “It should be ready soon,” she croaked, her voice scratchy, and she slowly made her way through the small kitchen over to the stove to check the beans. She was surprised they weren’t bursting by now. She barely felt any warmth from the pot. That was strange. The burner was turned off, but she knew she had turned it on. The pot wasn’t hot, but it was warm. She looked toward the rice cooker that she had started earlier, and it was still plugged in, but it was turned all the way down.

How had she missed that? He must have reached for the knobs when he came in to check on her. The fear had distracted her enough that she hadn’t even noticed.

She turned the temperature on the rice cooker up again, as well as the burner for the beans.

“Never mind!” he shouted, as he went toward the garage door. “I feel like a steak tonight anyway.”

He grabbed his keys from the bowl on the shelf and slammed the door behind him as he hit the button for the garage door.

She breathed out hard as the garage door opened. Her stomach growled at the thought of steak, but she just rubbed her hand over it in a circular motion as she went to stir the beans. It was all they could afford, or at least it was all he allowed her to afford. Steak was no problem for him, somehow. But she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until she heard the garage door going down again. She took a couple big breaths in, still listening.

The car choked and revved out of the driveway, and she finally set the spoon down and peeked under the kitchen sink. Two eyes reflected back at her and she ushered her daughter out, hugging her close. “You okay?” she asked, brushing the blonde hair from her daughter’s face.

The girl grabbed her leg and hugged it with every bit of strength she had before looking up, her eyes filled with tears, fear, and a four-year-old version of sympathy.

She bent down and hugged the girl with her right arm, not succeeding in holding back all the tears, her left hand automatically reaching toward her stomach again.

“Time for dinner,” she said, as her voice broke. Her lower lip threatened to start trembling again, so she bit it hard. Swallowing deeply, she scooted the girl toward the table and hugged her again as she sat down.

The girl’s eyes were wet, her cheeks slightly crusty with dried saltwater.

Scooping the beans onto the plate next to the rice, careful not to let the two touch, she reached over and set the plate next to the girl. She scooped up what was left, not worrying about the boundaries this time, and sat down at the table with her plate. It was barely more than the girl’s serving, but it would do. If he had been there, she probably wouldn’t have had any of it.

“Shall we pray?” she asked, reaching for the girl’s hand.

Her daughter pulled her hand back fiercely and looked up at her, tears streaming down her face again. “Does Jesus even care about us?” she asked, innocently, her face scrunched up in a contorted frown.

Not sure how to answer exactly, she reached out for the girl’s hand and stroked the top of it before firmly grabbing it in a cupped, solid hold. She gulped, then paused before attempting to answer. I hope so, she thought, as her voice broke again and she said aloud, “He knows what He’s doing, even if we don’t understand it.”

“I definitely don’t understand it,” the girl said, crossing her arms in front of her chest, as she dropped her head to pray to the only one who could help her out of this.

 

*Fiction

Fiction

Posted on July 14 2012 by J.W. Richmond

Some people view fiction as
                         pointless
                         insignificant
                         a waste.
     In certain cases, that’s probably
                         true.

                         But not always.

To see from someone else’s point-of-view,
    empathize with them
    feel their feelings
    think their thoughts
    and understand that person
              is highly valuable
                     and meaningful.

I have never been able to just come out and
                          accurately
     explain what I am thinking,
          for so many reasons.
               One is that I don’t always think
                          verbally.

I think in pictures
            expressions
            waves
            blurry outlines
            droplets
            muted sounds
            echoes
            rhythms
            subtle flavors
            scents
            shapes of non-words
            formulas
            boundaries
            endless lines
            colors
            lack of colors
            spiderwebs
            black holes.

Poetry helps unravel
     the jumbled mess (I think),
          but it can still leave a
                          chasm
          of misunderstanding
               between me and, well,
                    everyone else.

When I draw
          sketch
          paint,
               my [some other word for art here,
                      because that one is entirely inaccurate]
                            looks cartooney,
                                 as if it were done by a five-year-old
                                      who has no concept of shadows
                                                                     perspective
                                                                     or reality.

So I am left with silence
                       another undiscovered medium (maybe)
                       or fiction.

To release what's in my head,
     sometimes it helps to use words
          from someone else’s brain,
                         because they actually translate
                                   into English.
     I still have a hard time getting the thoughts
               exactly right,
                    but I do venture close
                     (sometimes too close)
                               to the feelings.

Disregard fiction – if you need to,
     but I find value in it.
Like a dolphin click-click-clicks,
     I am at least
               attempting
                         to communicate.

Altered

Posted on July 13 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I don’t think I have ever had the same dream twice, so it’s not exactly fair to call it recurring. It’s more like an altered version of something I’ve dreamt before.

Somehow, in this dream state, I have memories. I can recall things that happened in this dimension that I have never experienced while awake.

I pick up from a place I have previously been,
          or at least have inklings of that place
          or other events that have happened
          or people I have met –
                    who I’ve never met.

But not everything is the same.
Some of the pieces don’t fit,
     like it’s another draft of a larger story,
                       with deleted conversations,
                              entire scenes removed,
                              rewritten sections
                              and added characters.

But still,
     I have been here before,
          or at least an alternate 1985 version of me
                         has been in an alternate version of this place.*

Heading across the college campus, my backpack lighter than it should be, I cut through the grass under the large trees, between sidewalks, and quicken my pace as I walk up to the door of the three-story brick building. I can’t remember what I have been doing Tuesday mornings, but it must have been important because I haven’t been to this class for weeks. (Months?) I dropped that class. I remember doing it. But some glitch in the computer software kept me as a student and I now have a final exam in a class I only attended a couple times. (Or maybe I only dreamt I attended, but never actually did.) The questions may as well be written in Sanskrit; I have no idea what they mean, much less what the answers could be.

My number-two pencil snaps in my hand and I am back in the hallway again.

It’s a different night, a different dream, a few months later, but I recognize the hallway as if I were just there. There was no laminate wood the last time; it was that cold, lacquered, fake marble floor. But the doors are the same and even the same available apartments are listed on the bulletin board.

I am usually meticulously on time, but for some reason, I am late. I peek through the small window in the door, and recognize a bunch of people I have other classes with. Somehow, I am able to sneak in without the professor noticing, and I sit next to a guy I sort of-ish know. What was his name again? The professor starts speaking, and panic rises up in my throat as I sneak my schedule out of my backpack, glancing at it as nonchalantly as I can. It’s Wednesday afternoon, right? Not History of Western Culture, Drawing 101. But there are no sketchpads, easels or pencils. Room 203. Not 302. I’m in the wrong class. Not only am I late to this class, I have to leave it to get to the right one.

I try to formulate a plan in the midst of my panic, and I can feel myself start to sweat. My breathing gets harder, more rhythmic, as if I’m suddenly running.

I recognize the grass between the sidewalks this time, under the large trees. It’s familiar, but that statue wasn’t there before, almost like there had been a glitch in the Matrix.** Hadn’t there been a bench? And that building was painted a brighter color. Ignoring the differences, I keep running. I have a paper due in two hours and I haven’t read the book. I’ve done no research. I have spent so much of my time doing work-study in the library this semester, but for some reason, it never crossed my mind to do the assigned homework.

I know anxiety seems to be a theme in these dreams,
               along with looming deadlines
                        and impending failure.

They do seem to occur
                       somewhat
                       congruently
               to when I am very unsure about something
               or I have a big decision to make.

I get that.

What’s frustrating are those times when I cannot identify the culprit situation in my life where one of these dreams would be relevant. When there’s nothing obvious that links the two – but it has to be there somewhere.

I’m not entirely sure I’m looking at things from the right angle,
                                           or maybe even the right planet.

Maybe this puzzle was from a garage sale
          and it’s missing a piece
                              or twelve.

Or maybe it is blatantly obvious,
                    just not to me.

The memories
          within those dreams
               always have a deeper meaning
                         when I’m in that dimension.
     And that seems to remain true here as well –
               like those memories are somehow links
                    to the pieces I'm missing.

But it feels like the dream world
     holds those answers hostage,
                    yet also
                              dangles
                                         them in front of me
                                                                just out of reach.

 

*Back to the Future Trilogy ©1985, 1989, 1990
**The Matrix ©1999

Girlfriend*

Posted on July 7 2012 by J.W. Richmond

At this point, she would be okay if he just told his friends he liked her. Or he could be daring and call her his girlfriend. She may even agree to keep their relationship a secret for a while, if he asked. As long as that’s what this actually was.

It was too early for I love you. As nice as those words sounded in her head, she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear them.

But she was ready for something. She was waiting for any small part of him that he would give to her. Maybe it would grow into more, maybe not.

When they were alone, she had fewer questions about how he felt, fewer doubts about what she meant to him. He told her he thought about her, missed her when she wasn’t around, how he loved listening to her breathe and would watch her smile as she slept, wondering what she was dreaming. He told her how he always thought of her when he heard that song on the radio, the one that was playing that first night he saw her.

But she always left his apartment confused, in a fog, like his words didn’t add up quite right.

He made her feel loved – without loving her.

He wanted to hang out with her, spend almost every day with her, call and text her, but not be with her. What was he waiting for? Was he hoping someone better would come along? Someone else in particular? If that were the case, he had many girls who would jump at the chance to be with him.

She cussed under her breath as she squeezed the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening.

Why couldn’t she be that girl for him? What was wrong with her?

That night a few weeks ago, the one they had spent shooting hoops on the basketball court and pointing out constellations, it had taken every bit of courage she had in her to ask him what they were. It had already been two months of this – whatever this was. She hesitated even asking because she didn’t want to push him away. She wasn’t pressuring him for anything other than an answer, regardless of what that answer was. But she was willing to try, take the risk, be courageous, take a chance on him.

He said a lot of words about liking her and caring about her, but he wasn’t ready to have a girlfriend.

She had felt good about asking him and putting herself out there. But as she thought about their conversation later, she realized he essentially said he wanted things to remain the same. He wanted her to continue to be there – without actually having to be with her. He could be a politician for the perfect way he didn’t answer her at all.

It would be so much easier if she could force herself to stop caring for him. If she could just treat him casually, like he did her, and quit waiting around for this fantasy that he would change his mind and realize she was everything he was missing. She felt like she was only a benefit to him.

But as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t turn her feelings off. She couldn’t stifle that tiny bit of hope that he might actually care as much as he said he did. And she just couldn’t give up on him.

She had already fallen too far to just let him go.

 

*Fiction

Brat

Posted on July 5 2012 by J.W. Richmond

Usually if I am short with Jeff, it means my blood sugar is low. He learned this early on, and is very good at making sure I don’t go too long between meals. Of course, that is in his best interest too.

When I do wait too long,
     I start to improve once I have a few bites –
          preferably something that contains protein.
                    Stability returns,
                    the shakes subside,
                    the fog in my brain lifts
                    and I’m not such a bi… brat.

But the food thing didn’t seem to fit yesterday. The timing didn’t add up and I don’t know what was wrong with me.

I was just
              off.

I was restless all day,
         on edge,
         snappy with Jeff,
              and I don’t have an obvious reason
                              for any of it.

Was it the remnants from a fight we had last weekend?
           A crappy time of the month?
           The increasing mucky heat outside?
           The choppy sleep I’ve had the last few nights?

Maybe a combination of those things,
     maybe something else entirely.
               I don’t know.

I just know
     I don’t want to take it out on Jeff.