Been a while, Bon Dylan

I haven’t written in a while. It’s not because I haven’t wanted to. God knows it’s one of the only things I ever think about. Life, or the wrangled, tangled, filled with crap-that-doesn’t-matter in the long run version of “life” that I keep myself busy with has been getting in the way.

But, no. I’ll take that wrangle, tangled, crap-filled line back. There are two little people to whom that stuff probably matters a lot more than I realize.

I’ve been volunteering at Me First’s school when I can, contrary to my firmly held belief that too much of my attention can’t be good for nobody. Last year, Sister was still at home most of the time. I didn’t get down to the school too much.

A few days ago, I volunteered to take a group of Me First’s classmates on the “neighborhood adventure.” As best as I can figure, this is just a way to waste a morning. The only real adventure we had was when two of the kids starting fighting over the digital camera the school had provided to each group to document this glorified mid-morning walk.

The next week, I went in to help with a cooking debacle project. Me First was really happy to see me, which kind of took me aback, what with my “too much of my love will drive anyone to drink” theory of relationships.

And yet again last week was an observation day. Ain’t no joke what they say about Japanese school. It’s a part-time job for the parent, especially if your kids really want you to go to all the thingies and you have trouble saying “no.”

But this is a bunch of detail you don’t care about.

失礼

Had a huge fight with HRH over the weekend. I’m not sure you can call it a fight, actually, because it was a one-way attack of him against me.

I’ve lost interest in defending myself. No matter what I say or do, I’m wrong in his eyes. He’s a man who sees the world in black-and-white. I see nothing but shades of gray. I understand his color blindness; I know it is something I can’t change. He doesn’t get the concept of technicolor, though. He’s always trying to force me into this box of what I should be, but I don’t do corners any better than I do monochrome. Lost causes and all that. He’ll regret it bitterly someday, and it’ll be too late.

I learned those lessons he has yet to a long time ago.

The stress and tiredness and black-and-white boxes have led me to a wild mystery arthritic flare and I’ve been feeling like s.h.i.t. (sorry, Mom,) for several days. Swollen joints. Low grade fever. Fatigue.

Fatigue is a hard one to explain if you’ve never done it. It isn’t like being sleep deprived, or physically tired, or burned-out and fed up. (Why is it every time I try to write “fed” autocorrect changes it to f’ed? Okay, okay we know why, but really?? That’s so f’ed up.)

Fatigue is like living your life inside a bag made of bubble wrap, filled with water. Everything takes extra effort. I’d explain it more, but you’ve either been there or you haven’t. (Don’t try the water-filled bubble wrap at home though, okay?) It’s a little like being depressed, in a physical way, without the “fantasy” that the world would be better off without you. I use quotation marks there because so often I feel that the only real times of clarity we have are when we are in that depressing fog. Life is hard, and then it ends. But when you feel that uselessness sharply, when you roll in it and cover yourself with it like a child playing in the fallen leaves of Autumn, then you get called mentally ill.

But whatever.

I’m feeling better today. Hope the end is in sight.

HRH has been better since his prick-head eruption this weekend. He came home early today, and took the kids to karate. I’m making dinner and listening to Bob Dylan.

Been a long time, Bob.

I’ve missed you.

The kids and hubs hate The Bob. Eh, the kids will grow into it. Bob is kind of like The Bible. You take from it what you’ve got to put into it. I’ll go back and listen to a song I liked in college, and be struck by something completely different now that I’m an “adult.”

Bob got me thinking about the gifts of the spirit. I mean, damn y’all, he’s a singer with a voice like a crowbar on the barn door. God gave him all the peripheral gifts, but not the one you’d expect. All my life I’ve felt very keenly the lack of one of the spiritual gifts: faith. I don’t have it. I’ve come to peace with that, kind of. But, oh, how I envy those who can take the words in red and be told by someone else what that means, and be happy with that.

I question too much. I wonder too much. I imagine too much.

In my mind I imagine a reluctant Jesus. He knows his fate, and he gets on with it, but he’d rather do something else.

Kind of like Bob.

Well, this post has been all over the place. Hope you aren’t carsick.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. L.
    Nov 27, 2012 @ 19:22:09

    I was raised primarily by a deeply religious woman, and I envied that she could accept and find comfort in what I constantly questioned. I don’t care if my kids are believers or not, but if they’re not, I told them I never want them to look down on people who are.

    Reply

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