Dinosaur

Posted on August 24 2012 by J.W. Richmond

Maybe I am a dinosaur.
     Lyrics to songs
          weren’t always available
                                instantly
                                       from Google
                                          or Soundhound.

Many of my CDs and cassette tapes – yeah, yeah, dinosaur –
          came without printed lyrics.
     But I heard enough to know
            I identified with them,
                 so I had to know what the exact words were.

I would play a song over
                      and over
          listening intently
                   to every.
                      single.
                      word.
     Even then, they weren’t always clear,
          so I would put headphones on
                         play the song
                         write a few words down
                         rewind
                         write a few more
                         rewind
                         edit
                  then listen to it all together
                                 to make sure what I wrote
                                    made sense.

I remember sitting in the dark
          lying on my bed
                    or on the roof outside my window
          staring at the ceiling
                    or the stars
              and listening
                  until I essentially had the song memorized.

I felt like I was back in the land of Fred and Dino* last night.
     At least the songs were digital;
     I didn’t have to stop the tape
                                 and rewind.
     But the lyrics still weren’t on the internet.
               This is 2012.
               Seriously?

Okay, okay,
     I guess it was a little fun
           sitting in the dark
                 with only the computer screen to light the room
           listening to songs I enjoy
                          that have something to say
           letting them soak in
                while I tried to make sure
                     I could accurately write down
                                      every word,
                            so I wouldn’t get anything wrong.

Maybe it’s superfluous
               wasteful.
           But I was engaged
                        interested
                        provoked to something
                               as I listened
                               and paid attention to the exact words
                                         that were inundating me.

And now I actually know those words that have been
                    subconsciously
                         entering my brain,
                              which (I think)
                                   is essential.

 

*The Flinstones ©1960-1966

Cursor

Posted on August 18 2012 by J.W. Richmond

Everything goes white
     except for the

                    b  l  i  n  k  i  n  g

                                   cursor
                           on the empty page.

I would strangle it if I could.

Maybe
     I could squeeze a few words
               out of it.

Potential

Posted on August 17 2012 by J.W. Richmond

Apparently
     I have potential
                    to do more
                       be more.

Who knew?

I have wondered, sure.
But I have also
          questioned
               if my view was inaccurate
                                     untrue.

Could I do
          be more
                 without my current responsibilities?
Maybe.
(I think so.)

Even though I’m striving
     to learn
       study
       grow,
           there are times
                     I feel like I’m faking it
                          because I don’t actually know everything yet.
                   
But I have been asked
     to contribute more;
                 someone else believes
                      I am capable of doing that.
           Maybe
                they see something
                      I don’t.

So some of my responsibilities
                    have been                shifted.

And here we go.

If I fail…
     well, I don’t handle failure very well,
               so it’s not an option.
               "There is no spoon."*

 

*The Matrix ©1999

Informed*

Posted on August 11 2012 by J.W. Richmond

The chair was uncomfortable, severe, and not what she expected it to be. Not that she knew what to expect, exactly.

She probably should have assumed the chairs would be stiff, upright and rigid, like lawyers generally were. But shouldn’t divorce attorneys try to make you feel calm and safe, like you could trust them?

Maybe it wasn’t this office; maybe it was just her. She didn't know what to expect from anything anymore.

She had thought he was the love of her life. They loved the same foods and the same music, they had an almost identical DVD collection, they had fun together, they had great chemistry, and he made an effort to play with her son and help him with his homework. She was pretty sure that had attracted her to him more than anything else.

But things changed after they got married. He became very distant. He worked all the time, and he didn’t get her, didn’t understand her, and didn’t seem to care. He always cut her off when she talked; clearly, what she had to say was unimportant to him. He always had to have the last word, always had to be right, and never apologized for anything he said or did. When he yelled at her, she would find herself yelling back, just trying to be heard. But he never heard her.

His words were sharp, and they kept sinking in further, making her question everything about herself. She had always been confident, assured, and now, she wasn’t even sure where to find her feet.

He just wasn’t him anymore, and definitely not who she thought she married. And she felt like she couldn’t be her normal, cheerful, upbeat self – like he had stripped her of that.

He didn’t yell at her son the way he yelled at her. He provided for him, and was willing to take on some sort of fatherly role – when he was around, at least. Mostly, he just ignored the boy. It seemed like he had tried, for a while, but it turned out they didn’t really have all that much in common. There wasn’t a real connection between them, and the boy needed a father.

She fidgeted in her chair while she waited for her appointment, and weighed the pro-con list in her head as she stared at the wall and re-crossed her legs the other direction.

She wasn’t even planning to do anything. Not yet, at least. She just thought she should explore her options, just in case, so she could do what was best for her. And her son.

Money would be tight, but she and the boy had survived alone before, and they could do it again. She wasn’t excited about getting back into the dating world, especially since she would also have to look for a father for her son. She had thought she had found that man, that they would be together forever. But she wasn’t happy, and she wasn’t even sure he loved her anymore.

Maybe there was someone else out there who would do everything he could to make her and her son happy. Maybe she should just start over and cut her losses.

At least after the appointment, she would know what her options were, and once she had all the information in front of her, she could make an informed decision.

 

*Fiction

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