Hello again.

Been a while, huh?  Thoughts on the daily, but not committed to words.  Tis a shame, and I’m ashamed. 

What can be said?

Currently frustrated with the lack of upkeep on the end of my aquariums as time becomes ever more precious of a resource.  In a short span of time…I have acquired almost 10 new tanks, most of which sit unused, nagging at me with their possibilities.  It’s too infinite to start, almost.  I thumb through the pages of old aquarium literature.  I wish I could treat each tank as if it were my first.  With a direction and purpose and equal excitement.  Instead, I sip coffee and contemplate how much guidance my situation really needs, while my back aches and I hesitate to pick up a siphon or get to it. 

It’s also one of the coldest weeks imaginable for Michigan.  So cold, the very exposure to the outdoors for even 10-20 minutes is beyond painful.  Yet amazingly my home harbors a 70 degree tropical wonderland complete with live plants, exotic lizards, and Fish from every equatorial habitat.  I love it so, and wish I never had to leave for two jobs or school.  Yes, finals week is nearly done and school might be a memory for a small while.  But I’m still working on so much.  I still want so much.  Mostly, I want to move so much and get the windows down on an 80 degree day and turn back time simultaneously.  I think the season drags me down more than anything. 

Even this blog suffers.  Although still in its youth.  A premature death to the written word that I had longed to share all this time. 

I just wanted to say hi. 

And also that I’m still fighting.


The Hometown Effect


Another night and another bruise.  And a desire to write at 4 AM.

Pictured above is the since-deceased dog of childhood past.  Haunting isn’t it?  Well, I mean, sometimes it is.  For one, he’s gliding on air, that dog.  A beautiful countryside lights his steps.  I love the isolation.  And sometimes the pristine beauty.  But not the people who dot their homes along the highway.

I mentioned earlier I had a fish tank to clean.  It was a 50 gallon African cichlid set up since inherited by my father.  I don’t come home to clean it.  Unless I have to.  Last night was one of those nights.  The fish were imperiled and gasping air.  And I just felt it was overdue.  The only problem was…I felt queasy as soon as I saw the sign “Welcome to Charlotte.”

Driving through downtown isn’t the worst.  Except you see all these things and people that remind you bad things happen here.  Or did.  Or probably still do.  This town swallows you up.  It’s like quicksand.  I was fortunate to have an out.  Not everyone does.  Speeding along on their trucks and returning beer bottles and partying every weekend and working gas stations and grocery.   They are visibly content just by the fact they don’t budge.  I couldn’t sit still.

I remember a lot of angry people, old-fashioned and wrong.  My mom took up alcoholism when she felt she couldn’t leave.  I took up fish keeping.  And you know….that wasn’t necessarily a product of the town.  It got me places.   It gave me purpose.  My mom was also suicidal and severely depressed.  I can only blame the atmosphere.  She makes strides now that she has escaped.

So I don’t like going back.  But I did.  I love my dad, and he loves that place I grew up.  For now.   The tank cleaned up really, really well.  I sometimes get lost looking at places in the house that would have contained tanks and fish not so long ago.  What a trip.  I thought I had it all.  I feel closer now than ever, though.  If I could just convince my dad I can’t spend the night.

The night nearly ended with an ambulance and three cop cars.  Well, it did.  But it was not something we couldn’t have ever expected.  My dad’s girlfriend got delusional and upset when we went shopping.  And evidently wished to cut herself.  Or the disease did.  I sometimes wonder if Huntington’s is a product of what you were born into.  Well, it is.  Genetically she was the less fortunate one.  And my dad barely blinked at the idea of her being whisked away.  If only he weren’t so lonely.  It echoed a time when my own mom bluffed suicide.  And we all couldn’t sit still.

To the Plucky Housewives…..

To make money for my hobby, and to also qualify for work study, I get my hours in at the library on campus.  When I got the job, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Shelving was a must.  However, I got the end of the straw that said “congrats you get to crop and rotate and do computer stuff.”  It really is a fortunate job to have fallen into.   But again, not in the expected way.   For, I get to crop, rotate, and scan (beyond the massive collection of golf magazines) a plethora of old cook books.  I’m talking pre-1900’s old, in some cases!  Tonight was one of those.  I was scanning a household manual dedicated to “The Plucky Housewives of 1876.”

At first, I chuckled.  Who doesn’t find the housewife tradition a bit dated?  A few hours in, though, and I was starting to agree with the logic behind it.  If every family could be traditional, there are undeniable benefits for having a party solely to manage the household for which sanity depends.  And what woman doesn’t secretly enjoy the craft anyways?  I know I do.  I’m a closet housewife.

I also admire the language and written text of those times.  People today write as though a dictionary were not a useful tool.  I think all the new humans of the world could use a more dedicated mother these days……

If for nothing else, to teach them to get off their butts and drop the iPhone.

Them Plucky Housewives knew what was up.