Missing Alfonso

Alfonzo smiled when we put tacks in his seat. He knew they were there, pretended to sit and let out a howl with Buckwheat face. Putting the tacks in his seat was a gesture of affection. I loved him, his open smile and the way he talked to me like I was his best friend. He talked to everyone like they were his best friend.
Alfonso was love. His father was a pastor. That's all I know about him. Color held no weight; he was a boy, sitting next to a girl and we were friends. We talked about what it was like to be white, what it was like to be black, how we combed our hair. We decided that was the only difference between us.

We used different combs.

From the Beginning- As I Remember

She was annoyed. Spirals of telephone cord snaked in a coil on the floor in a tangle around my legs as she pried my hands from her calf and pushed me off of her feet. She rubbed at the wet tear stains on her turquoise Capri's and the pitch of her voice tightened. The space between my fingers ached for want of the satin ribbons that she was tearing from the edges of my blanket, the same cool satin that I spent the greater part of my days weaving in and out of my chubby digits while I sucked my thumb. The calm that washed over me when I found this combination was soft and warm; my ballast. I choked on sobs until I threw myself face first to the linoleum floor, exhausted and soothed by the waxy cool. She was talking about me. I watched her face sharpen when my thumb found my mouth and my fingers worked at twisting my hair into knots. Her lip curled and her glare burned through blue cat eye glasses. Shame planted like a seed deep in the center of my chest.

erase. time to start over.

i am 16 years old.

country western cliche

I've had lovers who lifted me in the moment.

The man who let me spend a weekend, my first solo escape.

He lifted my heart with my hips.

it was a moment.

There was the man from whom I hoped to learn to live free,

to slip into his world, to be safe in his circle;

the man whose freedom would never survive the weight of my need.

Who wouldn't love the man who lives in trees.

The last in the line is the toughest of lovers.

a pragmatist who bristled at my romantic notions,

the man who had the hope of happiness beaten out of him as a child.

I lament that these men will not have remote permanence in my life.

regardless of how poorly or how ill the suit.

I tried to be a toughie, tried to hate, but I can't.

I love.

unconditionally. I love easily.

I will look past the most hardened heart and want to wrap my heart round and
warm it.

This leads to heart ache.

I might curse and scorn, gnash my teeth and curse, say hurtful things, still...

I love

It hurts how much I love.

Today I ran against the wind, swirling amber bits of confetti under foot falls.
The trees here are on fire, burning so bright your eyes burn; your breath catches in that place between the breast bone and laughing and crying feel the same.
My lonely gray heron stood in the river staring into the distance at the same place on the horizon where the flaming trees met the sky; all muddled indigo, cornflower, clouds of blue.

We are so small here, our footprint so faint in the scheme; all of our melodrama plays like a circus of fleas.

I don't handle impermanence in relationships. In my head when a relationship falters it becomes abandonment and betrayal on an epic scale. I become a shipwreck and The slightest gesture of affection becomes a life raft that I hang onto regardless of fact that it's also buoys the chum that brings the sharks that swim round my brain move in for the kill.

A few weeks ago I was practicing my exit speech, thinking I need to get out, let him out and on with his life. In every way we are oil and water, But then I would be alone again and in the process of dating him I alienated the few acquaintances I've known, the few friendship I'd built. I saved every weekend to be on call for him. It felt natural and easy. He spent our evenings telling me how I should have done this, should do that, how he wouldn't date me if this, that or the other... I didn't bolt. It was comfortable, warm and cozy. I can't count the times he dropped me off in front of my house after a tirade that left me silent and in tears. Always about how it's been three years, I should have put a stop to the madness of the ex, of my son who's taken sides. I let a man tell me how many ways I am wrong. It was easy to curl up into it.

This man who as little education, little money, little tolerance...
This man who has goodness buried deep and locked away.

He yelled when my life and all it's drama interfered with our drinking and dining, I sat stone still & silent. I knew if I fought back might very well get the back of his hand. He made that clear. More than once I let myself into the house trembling at the lock, falling inside and wailing in a crumple ball of nerves.

The only time I spoke out was in drunken text. I hammered away not once, but thrice spitting out one hundred and sixty characters at a time- over and over and over again.

The one time he called to break my spell I begged him to come follow through on his promise. Take me out.

I meant it,

I wanted out.

I know I should be grateful that he is more sane than I-that he is finally truly done over and out...

I would take him back if he would have me.

He is a thousand times more dangerous than what I have known

And I would take him back as not to be alone.

How the hell did I become this person?

A little wine mixed with rejection goes a long way dragging me off into bad zones of no return. I burn bridge after bridge in this zone. This crazy self pitying bitch zone where every stray negative thought I've swallowed builds into a bile thick as hate.

I know before it escapes that I should straight jacket & gag myself, but I don't.

I let the vile mess spew

Thick as hate.

Verb

I've been following my Dear D's advice, and Will & Flutter holding that mirror up where I had to look at it. I'm moving things around.

It's really nothing short of miraculous,
well,
it's something other than the pity party where I've overstayed my welcome.

I Painted Art's bedroom!

He's been so dear through all the drama and I'm hoping to put to use some things I've been learning about How to Organize the Disorganized Child
Of late, this title applies to me as much as anyone else. Emotional immaturity was not something I would have labeled myself with before the divorce.

I'll post pictures of the room when I've added all the finishing touches and painted over all the lapses in concentration that ended up on the ceiling.

I wanted to surprise him, but he stopped by to pick up homework while I was in the middle of it. He's thrilled. I've painted, rearranged and I'm even adding some collages that I've made out of toy guitars and magazines. It feels good to be doing.
Thanks for the kick in the ass D!

His brother entertainment has been down right civil, even kind and loving. I'm hopeful, but guarded.

This could be a lull due to the absence of a beau.

The ex suddenly doesn't need to pull his things out of the house anymore. Then of course, this would not be allowed, I've change the locks and made clear the consequences if he steps foot on the property again, but that's never stopped him from hassling me before.

The boys continue to call me to check in, to see what I'm doing in the evenings. I like to think this is out of some concern or out of missing me, but as someone once called it, I think it's more to likely an attempt toward enforcing celibacy. Thankfully it's usually only once or twice in an evening.

Now I'm recycling old shit again,

I'm doing, pushing through.

I'm also limiting my cyber stuff. Face book really makes me feel like a stalker or often just feeling left out. Letting go of people is hard enough for me as it is, so when I can look them up and track how their lives continue without me, I make myself miserable. Yes I'm happy that they are happy, still... I don't like the envy I feel. So, there, other than the fact that I have to work until nine o'clock life is better here. I'm feeling mostly human.
Oh, and my classes are going so well I pinch myself every day.

If I do really live by show me don't tell me,
and I do.

I've been showing anyone paying attention how to fuck it up.

I'm cynical, locked up and self absorbed.

I ain't no hypocrite.

my motto:

Show me, don't tell me.

for better or worse,

I live by it.

There are pieces of me scattered
somewhere

There were people who knew me
once

there are days like this
and the last
and maybe the next
when days seem like months
months years
years, forever.

this is now.
tomorrow will be then
then will be somewhere else.
but now
is

I ran a 5k race today.

My son A, is at a marching band clinic,

My Son E, mumbled that me he loves me over the phone.

My Niece is Homecoming Queen.

My house is not a total shambles if I close the boys bedroom & the laundry room doors.

I cleaned my car.

My skin is clearing.