September 06, 2004

10:21 p.m.

My Tired Happy Ass

Make it stop, make it sto-o-o-op. How can there still be so much packing? How did I acquire all this shit? How did my back get so testy?

Today I began to tackle the basement storage cell; I did get through most of it, but after a few trips upstairs and across the lawn to the dumpster I had to rest my back. I also found the journals from when I was living with Ex -- I was doing a book then called The Artist's Way, and it has one writing three pages of spontaneous journal first thing in the morning, to get the brain going. It was difficult many times because Ex would be in a foul mood and ranting about everyone and everything, and he'd expect me to listen but we had an understanding that I was allowed ("Allowed!" As if I need permission!) to write undisturbed in the morning. Like everything else he only honored it when he felt like it. Then he'd accuse me of writing about him. How could I not write about him when he wouldn't shut up? No wonder I was depressed throughout 1995. And his bizarre obsession with Amalia, thinking that God had ordained them to be together (even though she was about 22 and he was what, 43?) (oh yeah, and even though we were living together and I was supposedly his girlfriend... until Amalia came around to seeing things his way, of course... I can't tell you how ludicrous and unhealthy this situation was)... anyway, Amalia finally convinced him she wasn't interested and then things only got worse. So I had to sit on the basement floor reading for an hour or so, delving back in to some of those days, and I was reminded of conversations I'd forgotten and dreams I'd forgotten, and totally reminded of what an asshole he was, on a daily basis.

It was another whole year before the shit really hit the fan at home. More turmoil and finally the big conflagration, the fire that wouldn't stop burning, the fear and the abuse. I was also reminded again and again, reading these pages, that he was maniacally verbose. Not only would he never shut up, he expected me to constantly listen. Good God, no wonder I was exhausted. He'd leave horrible, ranting, abusive notes all in capital letters for me on the kitchen counter. Like he had to keep getting in the last words, over and over. The day we argued and I left for work and he was pissed that I hadn't said goodbye and he followed me in his car all the way to work, got out, and threw his cup of coffee against my car. The other night that we fought and I went to my sister's without telling him where I'd gone, and he followed me there and left a big, capitalized note under my wipers that said, "DUMB IDEA." The other night that we fought badly, then somehow made up and then he confessed he'd hidden my keys anyway so I couldn't have left.

I find my ire rising thinking about these episodes, all the things I couldn't say then that I'd now like to spit at him. I know he was sick and pathetic; I know he's dead. What I don't know is how I put up with it for so long, at the expense of my family and some of my friends, my mental well being. I only hope that, when he passed, he was made to look at every single hurtful thing he'd done in his life, to me and to anyone else. I hope he had to look at all the shit he did to me, twice.

I'm so glad times have changed.

And then I took a deep breath and realized that it's been over seven years since he died, and I considered this fat stack of journals for a few more seconds, and decided I could now let them go.

I don't need to go back there again.

So I tossed them, with the worn out pajamas and the old baskets I never use. Felt good, like passage. Then I went out to get paint for the bedroom -- four gallons plus one quart and all the other supplies came to about $150 -- is that absurd? I've never painted on a large scale, I don't know what it should cost. Joliette is reimbursing me for the paint, about $94 worth -- I don't want to include the brushes and whatnot, in case she has a heart attack that I didn't buy cheaper paint or something. But anyway, the colors are so beautiful and it'll be DONE when I move in. Then there'll just be the very... lemony kitchen to deal with. Later.

I took all the paint to Rose's; they were out for dinner, so I left it in the garage. Tomorrow I'm sure I'll tie up some more packing -- it's got to end -- and pack for Florida. We're still hanging in the balance a little, waiting for word, but continuing as planned. I suspect I'll do a lot of sleeping in the van while Chris is driving.

OH -- that reminds me to tell you about last night, when I couldn't sleep. For heaven's sake, I went to bed exhausted around midnight and at 3am I was awake and simply could not get back to sleep. I lay there tired and wakeful til about 4:20, when I finally got up, made myself some hot soymilk with honey, and set about manifesting an inspiration I'd had just as I was falling asleep before. It involved taking apart my auxiliary desk. I have these two desks from Office Max or some such place, which I put together myself with great fortitude, phillips screwdrivers and lots of wrist action, and I was going to get rid of the smaller one and get a more conventional little desk for my music writing. Well, I just never moved on it so I decided to keep the littler desk and put it in a certain spot in the bedroom.

When I got to the apartment, though, I realized the slanted ceiling in that spot would not permit the desk to reside there, because it had a console section that sticks up at the back of the desk, with little shelves and cubbies for stuff, that was too tall. My inspiration was that I could just take that whole part off, and be left with a smallish, flat desk with a side compartment, an under-shelf, and a pull-out shelf for my smaller laptop. So at 4:30 this morning I was very quietly taking it apart and removing screws and lifting the heavy particle-board section off to reveal the cute desk within. Having accomplished that, I then balanced 2 months of my checkbook and then launched right into putting the band scrapbook together. I've saved all sort of things -- mailings, reviews, ticket stubs, fan mail, pictures -- and a while back I bought a scrapbook that has sat under my desk for at least a year. So in everything went, after being cut to size, ordered more or less chronologically and artistically arranged.

By then it had dawned -- it must have been after 7:00 -- and I was finally tired again. Dog tired. I went back to bed and slept for an hour, which passed in a blink. I opened my eyes and said, "Oh, thank God, I've slept," and went right back to sleep until about 9:30.

So my back is REALLY tired from hauling stuff to the dumpster (including the desk bit) and continuing to pack -- pots and pans, wrapping paper (I can't throw out wrapping paper if it's still good), small appliances... I've finished Dan Brown's Angels and Demons (prequel to The Da Vinci Code) and wish I had something as riveting to read right now, to get my mind in another place. Oh well. Meanwhile Dar has called, so I'll talk with him for a while and try to get to bed before midnight.

Ahhhhhh.