This weekend I went to see the Colorado Shakespeare Festival of King Lear. I would give it a $10 on a $50 scale. The production was leaden, the seats uncomfortable, and the only thing it was good for was causing enough immediate discomfort to make me forget my other problems. I had a headache throughout, but stayed once I realized that I knew one of the players. The actor playing Gloucester is someone I've worked with before. We did lots of Shakespeare together 10-15 years ago and he was Proctor to my Abigail in The Crucible. He is marvelously talented, (if incredibly unfocused off stage) it's so good to see him putting his talents to use. Gloucester is a pathetic character and he played him to good effect. What was weird was seeing him afterwards. His hair has turned white. It isn't just the stage makeup: he has aged. And it filled me with this strange sense of unease. It does not feel like so much time, but there we are, living testaments to time's passage.

Sound and fury... )

I had a pounding headache by the end of the play and it was quite late. Arriving home and sitting out late on the back porch trying to settle myself for bed I kept having these blinding flashes. "Fuck," I thought. "This is the last thing I need, some kind of neural event." Instead, it turned out that the flashes were lightning up in the cloud canopy, setting the whole world into blinding noon-brightness, though it was well after midnight. What rolled in, over the course of a few minutes, was a spectacular thunderstorm. Not only did it hinge nicely with Lear, it cleared my stormy mood.

Lear Part II

I just hate it when I am so clearly Lucy.

[The psychiatrist is OUT.] :P
Brother and I went to the mall to get a strip of photos from one of those instant photo machines. It's all digital now, which means the 'development' is almost instantaneous, but the process is still fun. You get two strips for $3. I seem to remember these being $1 for one strip when I was a kid, which means it's held its value. We sent a jokey card about 'family resemblance' with the pictures. Mom didn't get the joke, she commented on how much we looked like each other rather than our reference that our gawps and grimaces are a genetic legacy from her. But it was still very fun and appreciated and avoided some of the heavy sentimentality that often comes with the day. I sent her a book of poems about famous mothers and daughters (I also wrote a review to go with it, but for some reason they did not see fit to post it yet!) which touched her. Her FB update today was "To all of you who have mothers: remember to thank them for their strength and courage; their determination and audaciousness; and for their love for you! They did the best they could with what they had."

Fay Weldon's Rhode Island Blues )

Arcadia Falls by Carol Goodman )
My uncle Rob has died. I didn't know him well and he wasn't a particularly pleasant man while living, but it is the first incursion into this generation of my family. My dad and his siblings are taking it hard, not to mention my 94-year-old grandma, who should not have the burden of outliving her children.

Death Watch Thanksgiving has been cancelled.

The funeral is next week.
o Movie night @ TAMC
o Movie w. pals yesterday - this is the second week its been cancelled
o The giant grocery shopping that needs to be done. I am seriously down to dried beans. (Which are currently baking with the last of the molasses, coffee, bourbon and brown sugar.)
o Volunteering for the Fringe
o Going to Divine Intervention to see friend's art
o Visiting w. Brother
o Recycling
o Library (admittedly that's just because I'm lazy and have too many other books to read, though they've got Love, Stargirl on hold for me.

I'm sure there will be more things to add to the list. The good news is that I'm in walking distance of a grocery store (though I will probably not be bringing home 5 lbs of flour today.) And I can easily catch a bus to work even though it takes an hour and a half.

Plus, I need to clean house and keep looking for a job.

The new car should be here sometime next week. I don't know where I'll go first, but I think a trip to the Great Stupa at Red Feather Lakes is in order before the weather turns for the season.

Heck, I might even attend the Nee Wood motorcycle rally in Cheyenne. Even though I'm not married, yet. Nor do I have a motorcycle. (That status is more easily remedied.)

Since motorcycles run in both sides of my family there's a very good chance I will own one someday. Whether I ride with the Woods or the Naces largely depends on my marital status. The Nace/Pagett women largely don't marry. I have a handful of decrept aunts on that side of the family who drink, gamble, and live on the res. Most of them are veterans. The Wood women tend to marry charming enablers who smooth the friction between the Wood clan and the rest of the world.
Brother came up last night and we went to Dad's Symphony. On the program was:

Copland's Fanfare for a Common Man
Beethoven's Sixth
Vivaldi Oboe Concerto
Elgar's Enigma Variations

Pretty safe concert. Brother and I both love Beethoven's Sixth, the Pastorale, (which doesn't really sound very Beethoveny) probably because it was used on my "Child's Introduction to the Orchestra" record that we loved because there was a blue toy monkey on the jacket.

I hate concertoes and I hate Vivaldi, (whose work was recovered from obscurity by the WPA in the 30s, yet another thing to blame on Roosevelt,) but it was blessedly short. The oboe player was fabulous, even if she wore an unfortunately low cut gown. Her chest go redder the longer she played. The oboe has a similar tone to the kinds of vocal performances people usually give for Baroque music, a sort of counter tenor sound, which was an insight for me. When I'm singing I always determine what instrument I'm supposed to be in the part structure. It works really well for me to get the right tone. I'd never considered the oboe, but I could see how it would work well for certain types of music. I'm usually too busy being a little trumpet, a little flute, or my favorite thing to sing: a plaintive viola. (But I don't get very many viola parts. Usually I'm a trumpet or a flute just because the way the parts are written.)

Fanfare was also blessedly short. I hate to admit this, but it really works better in commercials than in the concert hall, especially when there's a sharp trumpet, a french horn that keeps cracking notes, and people still moving around trying to seat themselves and talking. It also doesn't really go anywhere, the intervals are stirring, and the drums pound deep inside a person, but then it's just over, and what was the point? (Perhaps an apt metaphor for the life of a common man.)

Liner notes say that Fanfare for a Common Man premiered on tax day, which Copland thought was appropriate. (Communist!) Now I'm tempted to play it every year when I finish my taxes. It's one of my dad's favorite pieces. He blew out the speakers on our stereo playing it when I was a little kid.

The conductor had put together a slide show of Elgar's friends for which the Enigma variations had been written. Brother loved this part because they all had funny mustaches, pipes, or lap dogs. The slides were projected off to the side so you could look at them or ignore them as you pleased. A short lecture preceded the piece, which was performed without interruption.

Brother really liked the Elgar, I could tell by the way he clapped. When I asked him why, he said he liked the way the variations had such different personalities, but formed a cohesive whole. "It was so sincere and earnest," he added, which cracked me up. I had a sudden vision of my brother as a Victorian, and it fit. He looks great in suspenders, or a Norfolk jacket, or a boater. He would look good smoking a pipe, rowing a boat, or riding an old-timey bicycle. Now it only remains to be seen if he can grow a funny mustache. I intend to tell dad that Brother liked the Elgar and suggest it as a Xmas gift.

A quiet day

Oct. 8th, 2006 07:47 pm
Outside the sky is low and pink from all the reflected lights. Fog is rising up off the rivers, and there is a spooky feel to the path that winds beside my house and off into the industrial area. We'll probably get our first frost tonight. It's the kind of night one needs something to snuggle up to, in my case it will have to be a good book. (Both the latest Bloody Jack and DWJ came out this past week.)

I'm making lentil-barley stew (it ends up tasting like corn beef hash, despite it's humble origins and simple ingredients.) There is some dough cooling for cheesy-crescents (cottage cheese, butter, flour, a little parmesan), and if I stay in the mood, I'll make some walnut cookies, too.

This has been a quiet weekend. Dad called this morning and asked if I'd like to have brunch. He was on his way back from Junction. Uncle Rob is dying. He's retired from trucking due to emphasema complicated with lung cancer. They've given him 6 months. He's moved into an apartment in Junction so Linda can look after him.

I was never close to Uncle Rob, his antics have created a lot more harm than love in the family. He inherited more of my Gpa's charm and bad habits (alcoholism, beatings, his way with women) than any other member of the family. My feelings about the situation have more to do with seeing my dad dealing with it, and the rest of the family close ranks around Rob, who if not a black sheep, has certainly been a lost one.

It's at times like this I'm slightly awed that I am a member of this clan. If there's one good thing that's come out of moving back to CO (and there have been many, despite this past, overly serious, year) is to feel more closely connected to the Wood clan, and to establish a better relationship with my father.

I stopped by the library today (where Fay Weldon's latest was on hold for me) and when I came out I saw Amethyst and Dan just returning from a walk. They had their backs to me. I saw them, turned, and kept walking. It's been almost two years since our friendship shattered, and even though we are on speaking terms now, it will never be like it was before.

The juxtaposition between blood family and friends made me wonder what and who will matter in another 20 years.
Friday, Brother met me for lunch (and my last summer hours afternoon.) We saw The Illusionist, which was disappointing. It depends on a secret I will keep; but as I guessed the secret early in the movie, it made for a rather dull film.

Brother has had a rather dreadful week, including a totally inappropriate reprimand at work. I could tell he didn't want to go back to his apartment. So I let him stay at the house. We went to see relatives Saturday, so it made sense, but I hadn't planned to spend the weekend looking after him, or drinking with my relatives.

Saturday the nee Wood motorcycle gang met at Chez Dad. (I've got motorcycles on both sides of the family. It's like a hereditary disease. And let me tell you, no one rides bitch. All the women have their own bikes.) We pulled up within minutes of each other. It couldn't have been choreographed better. The funny part is that the meeting time was "afternoon" so it was totally unplanned.

Aunt Donna is looking well. She's been battling cancer for the last year. Uncle Dan seems the more touched by the experience. They are my favorite relatives, probably because they didn't have a daughter and always doted on me because I was a girl.

With the aid of several paint buckets, we managed to seat 8 around the table. We topped off 4 bottles of wine. Two weren't drinking. (My dad and his teetotaler girlfriend.) There was much cheer and telling of stories (Sister Mary Whoever, being one of the jokes of the evening.) Someone drew diagrams of chemicals, and there was a lot of one-up-manship and high fives. My uncles (no blood relation) seemed particularly proud of my contribution to the conversation, which involved some great quips, a funny story about making my boss smell her shoes, and some rock 'n roll anecdotes.

Both my uncles are great guys. The Wood family tends to marry enablers who tolerate our shortcomings and antisocial behavior. It is probably because of the in-laws that we're all speaking. The good part is they make us bearable to each other and the rest of the world. With any luck, I'll marry one, too.

There was one really regrettable conversation about meth, and we finally found out more about dad's girlfriend's work (something about miracle nutrients told with the religious quaver of a true believer,) but on the whole it was a positive experience and made me feel that there are some positive traits to belonging to this family, and that the larger dynamic (with Donna & Dan) shows a clear place for me in it.

Dad's house was picked up and he has a lovely vegetable patch which provided salad for dinner. All the relatives were complimentary about the house. I have to say it gave me a bitter pang. Why couldn't I have grown up in a nice house with a garden? I'm so thankful that dad is living back on the grid again, and that as my brother puts it "he seems to have decided that enjoying life isn't a sin," but that doesn't mean I don't wish he would've been a better provider when I was a kid.

Brother showed me his plans for the stairs. Mom has really pushed for me to "let Nathan give." She won't pony up the cash for me to hire someone to make repairs. But she will give him all the cash he asks for to pursue this project. It kind of pisses me off, but I decided I'm going to "let" him do it within the next six weeks.

Sunday I found out the reason my neighbors have been gone is because Virginia died. Gustavo has been visiting relatives in Mexico. I feel horrible, first because I didn't find out sooner. Second, because Virginia was a lovely lady and it seems like just yesterday we were getting acquainted in my very poor Spanish. I have no words in either language to convey my regret.

Marla stopped by this morning the Rob Brezsny Boulder Weekly.

Things I didn't do this weekend: both Job's BBQ & the show I wanted to see were on Saturday and had to be dropped for the family.

Holiday weekends make me feel at loose ends. They highlight my being single and not more heavily attached to a peer or family group. They also remind me of how used I am to being busy. I don't know what to do with myself with the extra day. I can't quite relax into being unoccupied, so I busy myself around the house. I baked brownies and a quiche (which I dropped on the floor. That was interesting.) I worked int he garden and took several long wanders. I watched Veronica Mars (the prom episode made me cry. I think I identify with Veronica just a little too strongly.)

Anyway, that was my weekend. Several things need to change this month. That damned project needs to finish one way or another. I need to collect for the work I've done on it. I need to start applying for new jobs. I need to make more effort to invite people over and include them as a part of my life.

I even considered starting internet dating this month, but after looking at some of the profiles this weekend, I've decided I am entirely too cynical to meet someone that way. People seem to lie even more online than they do in real life. And while not having herpes is certainly something I'm looking for in my next partner, it should not be the #1 reason someone recommends themselves for a date. Besides, it's rather obvious that no one is picturing me when describing their dream date. I think I'd do much better on my own. The goods present much better in person.
A rough day at work.

Capped by Morris Dancers at the brewery on the way back from my wander. Why can I not escape Morris Dancers? Does anyone else have a problem with Morris Dancers randomly showing up in the daily venues of one's life? It's not like I was doing something theatrical or live in a place where Morris Dancing has historical precedence. I was just coming home from my walk, and there they were, hopping, jiggling, tapping, and those ridiculous costumes! Maybe they're not really everywhere. Maybe it just feels like they're eveywhere because a little bit goes a very long way. I just don't understand it. Who does this for fun?

Then dad called to tell me the aunts are coming through town on their end-of-summer motorcycle ride. (I have aunts with motorcycles on both sides of the family. It's like an inherited disease. My Officemate is also trying to get me to ride.)

Unfortunately, it will be Saturday afternoon, which means goodbye to Job's BBQ and the show I planned to see. Dad (who I've been feeling oddly forgiving towards) called this evening to say, "I wasn't sure when to tell you because you were upset when Gma was late last time..."

To which I replied, "I wasn't upset she was late. I was upset that you didn't tell me she'd be late and expected me to come over early to clean your house with your girlfriend, whose presence you also hadn't prepared me for."

He fails to understand the difference between late travelers, and dads who expect their daughters to take time off work to help them with housework. In his mind I'm still mad becase Gma was late. He just does not understand social nuance. I asked if we'd be eating in shifts again this time. He says he has enough plates now, but not enough forks. "So it might be pizza again this time."

Can't we just go out for dinner, instead? (Not since they tore down Pioneer Pies, which was about the only restaurant my dad thought was both good food and a good bargainl. It was neither.)

So, the aunts are coming through town, including my favorite Aunt Donna who gave me my first set of Junior Illustrated Classics and started me on the road to ruin. Donna's recovering from breast cancer and I can't not take the opportunity to see her and my Uncle Dan, who has always doted on me as they have two sons and no daughters.

Uncle Dan is a parole officer, raises hunting dogs, and is one of the sweetest men I have ever met. They have a beautiful house and gardens and lots of land. I hope someday I find someone handy and masculine and who loves me as much as he loves Donna.

Aunt Linda and Uncle Jan will also be there. Uncle Jan is also wonderful. Members of my family tend to marry enablers who allow us to be neurotic and fill in the social graces the family lacks. Sometimes I think the in-laws are the only reason we are all still speaking.

I find the family exhausting, but it is the family I get and I feel fiercely proud to be a part of the clan. There is lots of feuding that goes on, but when push comes to shove we band together against outsiders. It's good to be part of something like that. Mom hardly speaks to her relatives.
My mother came busting into the room in the middle of the night telling me she heard sirens, we needed to all get up and go because there might be tornados or a flash flood.

To be fair, we had some crazy thunderstorms last night (I kept dreaming that country singers from the county fair kept trying to come in by bathroom window to try to get out of the rain) and I also heard sirens, but they wouldn't have woken me up; after the years I lived in NY a siren is a thing to shrug off unless accompanied by flashing lights and a loudspeaker. The usual indecipherable quacking sounds (instructions) did not follow the sirens, and further investigation (the radio, the weather website, the NOAA) did not yeild any kind of severe weather warnings.

I have no idea what was going on, but I was very annoyed to be woken up, especially as sleep has not come easily these past two weeks.

The good news: my emergency preparedness skills are better than I would have thought. I grabbed my windup radio, a rain slicker, a jug of water, and a first aid kit in a matter of seconds. The struggling to get dressed part while half asleep was harder. (I was rather embarrassingly sleeping in the nude.) Mom seemed upset that we couldn't get any information. "What if this was a real emergency!" she kept repeating.

"If it were a real emergency, there would be more information," I said. The logic that the reason there was no information was because there was no emergency didn't seem to be getting through to her, I'll try to discuss it again once I see her this morning.

My brother was also staying the night. He stayed up and folded orgami. I went back to bed, despite rumors that they might make a night of it and go find breakfast at the Waffle House out by the freeway. (That part was actually my idea, I was just too tired to implement it.)

All is quiet this morning. I have an appointment and am finishing my cup of tea.
[ profile] sdn asked "What does Pooh mean to you?"

I gave a somewhat standard response involving how I learned to like Pooh as an adult.

What I forgot to mention is that Pooh is one of those ways my father has of telling me I'm still his daughter and that he loves me. He gave me a Pooh b-day card this year, and last year when I was really sick, he bought me Pooh stickers.

Now I'm all teary.
I've had a marvelously relaxed weekend. Booboo visited yesterday. Dad took us out to Longmont's latest Italian restaurant. It is not as authentic as it claims, but it had very good salads (with freshmade dressing) and amazing desserts. Too bad it smells like cat, as my brother observed.

We had a hilarious conversation about creating a "New World" tiramasu. It started when my brother asked, "Is this cinnamon or cocoa," and it led to a culinary fantasy that cycled through a "Mexican chocolate" style dessert, to something bizarre made out of llama milk. We thoroughly confused my father. Probably because the recipe for "New World Desserts" was interspersed by a story about first contact between North American Natives and Vikings, an initially peaceful contact ruined by lactose intolerance.

I'm a little worried about my father. He's not as sharp as usual. Something about him seems foggy, or fuzzy. His physical health has been cause for concern since Thanksgiving. There haven't been any developments, just a fuzziness that makes me feel uncomfortable.

Our waiter went on about the Squaresville Theatre Company, not realizing he was speaking to a member of its former dynasty. There was an irritating feature about their latest show in the local newspaper this weekend, including pictures of a woman I detested when I used to perform there. The local theatre company used to be a lot smaller and a lot better. Now it's gotten competitive and ponderous. I haven't been impressed by any of the shows I've seen lately, despite their "imported" talent. I guess it feels like the Emperor's New Clothes, people get all excited by pedigree and ignore the actual talent. (Like the woman who went on about being a part of the Asheland Shakespeare Festival, later it turned out she worked in the box office, which really doesn't qualify her to make unquestionable artistic decisions.)

Then I fixed the step while my brother watched and cheered me on. He's heavy on the Scottish Enlightenment lately, so he also lectured me on what he's been reading, which was interesting. We found an interesting proof that would really do a number on dad, but decided it would be cruel to use it. Weirdly, I can't remember what it was.

This reminds me of a time I was having coffee with [ profile] muphf and he said, "Yeah, some families are so smart, you always wonder what they discuss amongst themselves when no one else is around."

"They probably make fart jokes," I said. I don't know about everyone else's families, but in my family it's true unless my dad is around.

So, I slept a lot, wandered a lot, cleaned a little (uncovered some things left behind by my visitor Wednesday, which means I will have to see him a lot sooner than expected), read a little bit, and finished a Season 4 of Upstairs, Downstairs.

Now I have two questions for you:

Catherine Asaro - should I bother?

Does anyone know of Quantum Physics for Babies or some other basic layperson's primer on theoretical physics?

On the whole, I'm feeling a little better all around, less floaty, and more like I can hope for a future again. I can't SEE a future, but I can sense one out there, and that's a good feeling to have after being focused so long on the immediate tasks at hand at exclusion of all other pleasures.
The best thing about my Thanksgiving was seeing my Gma (90), and my little (2nd) cousins: Aidan (11), Bekah (9), and Jillie (3). They spent the whole weekend doting on me, and Bekah drew me a beautiful, anatomically correct, pegasus stallion, which now holds the place of honor on my refridgerator. It is really a remarkable work without adding the words "for a nine year old." She's still learning perspective, but her attention to detail (and anatomy, not only is this horse definitely male, the wing construction shows someone who has considerable observation of the natural world) is incredible, even if the horse is orange with green spots and a pink mane.

Gma is well, and doesn't seem to have aged to me. Aunt & Uncle still bicker, but seem to be enjoying retirement and remodeling their house. Cousin struggles with her health and she and her family have recently moved into the vicinity of Colorado City, one of the nation's most notorious polygamist towns. And my dad pulled out pictures of a girlfriend I didn't even know he had. (Last year he took a different girlfriend and her children instead of me to family Thanksgiving, and her daughter crashed my uncle's golfcart into his shed.)

Somehow I managed to convince my frugal father to spring for my own hotel room. I still can't figure out how I managed that one. I even offered to pay for it, but he refused. Still, I'm definitely ready to be home. It feels like I've been gone for days and not just overnight.

The mountains seem remarkably snow free for this time of year, but I thought I would mention this is the longest trip I've taken since I've returned to Colorado. Junction was wilder and more beautiful than I remembered, and seeing it reminded me of all the crazy adventures I've had there, including skinny dipping in unauthorized hot springs in Debeque Canyon, picking up boys at the club where my other cousin was a bouncer, and staying in the homes of people I barely knew because no one wanted the party to end. I believe the only thing I need to add to my list of adventures is something involving guns, and something else involving motorcycles, which shouldn't be too hard as my cousin's family has gotten so into motorcycles (more motocross style, than roadbikes,) that even the cousinlets have their own bikes.

This stay was more staid, though it also gave me a lot of things to think about.

P.S. Oh yes, my aunt and uncle are amateur aviators, so they have a small plane we often take up for pleasure jaunts, or that they frequently rescue family members in when we have car breakdowns, so add airplanes to the list of general wildness.

P.P.S. My cousin has the sweetest Reservation dog I have ever met. She is definitely part coyote, she has the small build, enormous fox-ears, and the brushy tail of a coyote. But she has white fur with tiny black spots, and deep brown-red eyes. She came when I whistled. I have never had a dog do that for me. We played for hours. I think I almost liked her more than the cousinlets. She's certainly less trouble.
In other news, my mom left today. I cried. She can drive me a little nuts, but it's been really nice having a sympathetic mom around this past month. Sometimes I wish she lived a little closer, so the distances wouldn't seem so large, and the time we had together wouldn't feel so loaded.
After an exhausting day at work, I arrived home to find two boxes of plants on my doorstep. My mother ordered them to plant gardens on the side and the front of the house. Needless to say the yard is a wreck, much like the interior of the house, much like my LIFE, so I've decided I'm putting out a call for help.

For those of you who live in the area, I'm inviting everyone over for an impromptu gardening party. Bring yourself, gloves, friends, beer, and anything else that might be helpful. I've sent emails out to those of you whose emails I know. If you are interested and have not received an email from me, note me and I will let you know how to get in touch.

I am getting a raft of gardening catalogs in the mail, all containing covers or stickers with the words, "Here is the catalog you requested."

I did not request any catalogs. I have a feeling this is my mother at work, yet again. I suppose this is catalog karma for the various USPS pranks I've played over the years. In high school, I was mad with an ex-boyfriend. I knew his highly religious parents really wanted him to go to a Christian college, while he didn't plan to go to college at all. I picked up a book of postcards from a Christian college recruiter and signed him up for every single college in the packet, (probably about 50 of them) knowing that each time college information arrived he would have to have "a talk" with his parents. (My plan worked. I heard all about it at school. I also signed him up for "Stop Bedwetting," but that was just mean and not particularly clever.)

Then there was the time I was convinced my father should go join a monastary. He was raised Catholic, but converted to Protestantism (he's a fringe-fundamentalist, whose beliefs are primarily Calvinist) in college. At the time he was living "off-the-grid" in a travel trailer, heavily involved in militia activities, and extremely paranoid. As he has very little in the way of retirement, I somehow decided that the solution to all our problems was for him to become a monk. (I still believe he was the son who was supposed to take the cloth in his family.) So I did lots of research on monastaries that have music as a part of their ministry and signed him up for more information.

I never heard about any results from that "prank." Dad is doing much better and after a brief flirtation with Jews-for-Jesus (led in our town by, of all people, an old choir teacher!) he is living in an apartment again, attending a Dutch Reform church, and dating! Other than his 2nd Amendment fife & drum corps, he no longer is involved with militia stuff anymore.

I guess I'm getting off easy if all I'm getting is gardening catalogs.

Mom asked if I would be interested in buying the trailer today.

"It's really because of you that we found it," she said. It's true. I came back from two years in Boston to live in a crowded two bedroom duplex with my mother and my brother. Someone had to sleep on the living room floor. I was unemployed, and still grieving for having to leave Boston. I didn't really want to come home, but I knew I had to do it. My mother was often ill, had job troubles of her own, and I couldn't afford college or the cost of life on the other side of the country. That summer, while I looked for a job, I decided we had to start treating the duplex like a home, or the hearth gods would never think us worthy of something truly our own.

We were in the trailer by Christmas. I was totally against the idea at first, hoping instead for a little cottage. A home, in the most conventional sense of the word. But the trailer was all we could afford; and it was beautiful, and almost new. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, all new appliances. The heat hadn't been hooked up yet, but we set up a tree and celebrated Christmas there anyway, it was one of the best Christmas presents I have ever received. The smell of pine needles, and all the various polymers degassing. It was the first time we'd ever all had our own rooms.

Moving back her has been such a boon to me. And it has also been wonderful knowing that it has helped ease my mother's financial burden. I've worried about it selling; where I'll go, what I'll do; but mostly I have just felt incredibly blest, and a little overwhelmed.

Lately, the responsibility of living here has weighed on me quite heavily; almost as though I'M responsible for it not selling. Things have gotten pretty bad over the past few weeks. I think I'm a little depressed. The dishes, laundry, and clutter aren't dealt with as efficiently as they should be. I've been dreaming about living in the little dowager cottage on the Moler's property, mostly because the house is too big for one person, and I'm more than a little overwhelmed by the yard.

I'm a little offended she'd offer, almost as though she is shirking her own duty and financial burden. But I know that wasn't her intention in offering.

And honestly, her offer made me cry. Because part of me would like nothing more than to stay a little while. Make this place my starter home. But I can't do it alone. Currently I pay approximately $400/mo for the lot rent. The mortgage and utilities would bring it to $1000/mo, which is beyond my financial reach, (but a bargain in this area for a place this size, with a nice yard, and easy access to a nice little nature path). I could do it if I got a roommate, but I'm not sure I want that either...

More than anything it reminded me of how much I want to be able to share my life with someone. And how I had secret hopes a certain someone might be moving back to Colorado soon and sharing it with me; hopes that were evaporated by a much needed dose of reality earlier this week.

I don't know what I should do now, but I have an overriding sense that the gods are at hand yet again. They do not like a lack of faith or commitment. Maybe if I stop treating this place like a temporary shelter, and give it some of the love and care it deserves I will be rewarded again.

I've been here six months and so much has been left undone. So much is still undone from when I first arrived. It's time to solve some of these issues and clear the path for whatever the future may bring.

I'm so scared, and beginning to think as much as I have enjoyed it, our lives are not meant to be lived alone. I am also questioning how much choice we have in the matter, because I know after three incredibly difficult years with someone who was not my love, in a place that was not my home, that there are worse things than being alone.




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