The Ordinary Oldens

Old people are interesting. I say this because it is obvious that they have been through a lot--they look it, and sometimes they act it. And yet, so frequently, they are boring. I don't mean this as an insult, just a fact. I am chauffer for my boss's husband, who is 92, not "allowed" to drive, and is a formed Medical Doctor. I know he has a billion exciting stories to tell me, but instead we are constantly repeating: "Nice day," "too much rain," "how was your weekend?" It's very simple and tedious. I can stand tedious, much to my amazement, eight hours a day for seven hours a week. It doesn't bother me too much. (I think this is because the "farm" and his very active wife make up for the slow-going calm that he gives off.)

What I really want to write about is how old people change physically. Carlene is 72 now. A couple of years ago, she was sitting in her armchair, wiping up a line of blood on the back of her hand, when she turned to me and said, "I hate getting old. Your skin gets as thin as paper." She can't hear me when I talk to her. "You need to speak up! I can't hear you goddammit!" But Tom (her husband) will just quietly repeat what he's said two or three times until you realize he can't hear you. It's all very strange to me.

Walking slowly is good exercise: I've learned this from weeks of walking next to Tom while he's going up or down the steep driveway, foot by foot, shuffling-like, like his knees hurt maybe, but his back is hunched too. It pushes my legs into override. I have to actually feel my thigh muscles as they move up and down and around, while walking...walking fast is so much easier. We can stretch and ignore any pain, any aches, any anything. The slower one moves, the more one notices. I notice that the dogs won't bark at you if you move as slow as Tom does. I notice that my breathing isn't quite as labored, and I don't feel as rushed as I was just a second ago.

It makes me wish that the ability to slow down wasn't wasted on the old. I want some calmness too!

Morning Writing

Morning is probably my favorite time to write nowadays. If only mornings here (at my father's house) weren't so loud and balancing precariously between simmering anger and straight-out flash-fight, morning writing might prove easier. It is a constant stream of "he's crazy-she's crazy" at this house in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes it just makes so much more sense to travel to my ex's house and let them call me crazy, too.

He the rock: staying in place and trying to pin her down. She the free-like butterfly, and all he wants is to clip her wings, let her fall back to earth, to him, so they can live together happily. I am nervous for them, and for her daughter, and for myself. I might always think of my own relationships, well, it's not as bad as theirs was...which won't necessarily mean it's anything of an improvement.

A day of puppies and cheese sticks and plenty of
back and
forth, back and
forth.

It is almost the fourth of July, and still I have nothing planned. There is this mental alarm clock in my head that screams: "Holiday! Do something! Hang out with friends!" But then I can't find anybody to hang with...I can't hang with Dan and Stephen because all they do is sit around and play board games...Sara can be tedious at times, and is most often with her boyfriend or at the Cape...and I don't talk to anyone else! (And Chris, my ex-kinda-still boyfriend doesn't like organized events AT ALL and probably wouldn't enjoy a day of barbecue and a night of fireworks, unless they were viewed from the privacy of his own bedroom.)

If I had my own house, I would be inviting in Carlene's dogs, sitting them, playing with them, no need for people, and writing while doing so.

Some dog stuff

The dog's stomach is growling. She's been mowing down the grass again. "You're not a cow!" My step mother says in cutesy-voice to the pup. Abby is a Puerto Rican mutt. At 35 pounds, she has four legs, a muzzle, and desert-colored fur. Looking at her, I am reminded of the setting sun at the beach, or perhaps of an oversized chihuahua, with her pricked ears and frightened black eyes. She's a whimp, or "submissive." Hates my dad and other guys. But she likes my boyfriends...Stacey (step mom) thinks this is due to his heavy boots, thundering voice, and attack-like movements. I think she might be accurate in that assumption.

At Carlene's (the Farm) the dogs don't get away with a fear of the human male. They are subjected as often as there's a guy around, and Carlene will have him sit down petting the dog with a pocketful of cookies. Today Chaos (about four months old, she's a harlequin) made the mistake of shying away from the control officer, Matt, who stopped by today. Carlene called the pup, but she ignored, tail lowered, as she hid behind sad-faced Gypsy, perhaps her big sister. Carlene grabbed her, brought her back, and made Chaos stay still while the tall man in the flourescent-yellow jacket and with the heavy boots, petted her and gave her cookies. I sat by her side, to deter any escape plans she might consider. The man smelled of a very strong cologne that even bothered me. I wondered if it wasn't the smell that sent Chaos-puppy running. I was intent on doing the same very shortly.

Night fades in like shadow during summertime. And the clouds with this rain block all light that may be emitting from the moon. Is it dark? Full? Waning? I know not.
Every day moves like glee, as I work at the farm, driving a 92-year-old man around in the durango, smiling at every driving "correction" he makes. "Use your mirror when you're getting into the lane," "Don't slow down!", "You're going too fast!", "watch it now..." It's more amusing than irritating most times. When we come back to the farm, I feel like I'm home, the 32 to 40-inch great danes come wagging their bottoms toward me, Gypsy (wobblers) nearly knocking herself over, she's wagging that damn tail so hard. The tail of a dane is like a pure leather whip. A fresh puddle of pee in front of the fire place. Newspapers tossed haphazardly over old puddles around the rest of the house. Blanket-covered couches against the walls, a black-and-white picture of Carlene (the head honcho, or the pony-leader) walking a pig by leash through falling snowflakes. She's smiling. To anyone who knows her, a smile is a rare treat.
I come home, sit in front of the blank screen, and wait for a story to hit. It never really does. So I write what I know: about the dogs, about Carlene, about my sister and how she gave herself bangs, about my parents and their terrible marriages. I try to steer myself away from writing about the junkyard I grew up with, or about my grandmother's bus. I write about Abby, or at least think about writing about her. I write about fake people I have never met, but who I want to exist, if only so that I might have someone to talk to. I write about all of my ex-boyfriends, over and over again, trying to puzzle out their issues, and mine as well, having dated them.
But mostly, I write like this: I write about writing about things. I know it must be done, but haven't yet been able to bring myself to do it.

Music blah

If you're ever in the mood to get happy, find this song on google: "People Should Smile More" by Newton Faulkner. It's got that easygoing reggae sound, like Jason Myraz music, "I'm Yours." Little of this spund of music seems to exist, considering pandora.com keeps resetting after it goes through 20 or 30 songs. This music makes me calm rather than irritated or hyper.
I prefer singing to any other instrument (perhaps because I can't play any of them...) but people tell me I'm good, and I know that's true. Maybe I'm not a Christina Aguilara or Amy Evanescence, but I can win myself some free passes to roller palace! (And did.)
My favorite songs to sing loud are Evanescence, Merril Bainbridge, and random oldies. I LOVE Donna Summer "Last Dance" and "Hot Stuff." All right..."Bye bye bye!" is no longer on my list.

Blog #1 some Carlene stuff

I have been writing about my childhood in the third person. This makes the painful memories much easier to delve into and confess without that feeling of hopeless misery. I've also been reading "Bird by Bird" written by Anne Lamott. It's a very good book, and I suggest it to all other writers, although it is a bit depressing. "Writing Down The Bones," is by far my favorite writing book.
I'm also working again this summer at a farm I've been working at for years now. It's the Service Dog Project, where we breed and train great danes to become service dogs, but it's run by this crazy lady--Carlene White. She is TOTALLY awesome, and any journalist's fantasy character, because she does so much, and has all these really simple complications, and she's just a little scary. She's my idol. In any case, she keeps hiring me, so I must be doing something right. She used to run Animal Episodes, where she trained animals for movies and commercials and things. The last movie she helped with was "Session 9," the movie that came out in 2001 or something, there's a dog in there somewhere that she brought. She's always looking for volunteers (and donations) so if anyone is interested in meeting her, you should go to Ipswich and just do it.
This is my first "blog" post, persay, so patience please. Until tomorrow!