Other mothers, yuck

When I was pregnant, I idly wondered if I would soften toward mothers. Hell no. I'm sitting in a cafe right now and not only are they taking up half the place, but they're super loud and irritating. Listening to them talk about day care and babies, babies, babies is giving me a headache.

The binds that tie

Boundaries. I was raised to believe I wasn't entitled to them, so is it a surprise that at times I don't believe others are as well? I always think that drawing boundaries is some element of an insult, good fences and good neighbors be damned.

I think it's time to change that. It's time to realize that I too have the right to draw the curtain, the line, whatever, just as others do. It's time to understand that setting boundaries doesn't mean pushing people away, doesn't make people lonely (least of all you), that it's healthy.

What a concept.

Posting to Facebook at nearly 3 a.m.

Because I'm up chewing over it, a few choice phrases from my father yesterday afternoon:

"Your flaky Berkeley friends"
"Is that what your therapist told you?"
"You have some major problems."
"You've ruined the last three visits"
"Oh, Allison. Give me a break." (Said any time I brought up anything that carried any weight of emotion.)

A bit of levity: apparently his cheap-ass shoe busted on him, leaving his sole flapping in the wind. Adam brought him Superglue (which was SO not good enough, or so he said) and he sat in the middle of a crowded restaurant in stocking feet, trying to glue together said cheap-ass shoe. Later he duct-taped it and called it a day.

Words of wisdom

3000 ... I'm telling you. Don't mess it up for everybody. Greyhound don't float on water.

- Video for Outkast, "Hey Ya!"

Storytime

Baby Can I Hold You

Sorry
Is all that you can't say
Years gone by and still
Words don't come easily
Like sorry like sorry

Forgive me
Is all that you can't say
Years gone by and still
Words don't come easily
Like forgive me forgive me

But you can say baby
Baby can I hold you tonight?
Maybe if I told you the right words
At the right time you'd be mine

I love you
Is all that you can't say
Years gone by and still
Words don't come easily
Like I love you I love you

But you can say baby
Baby can I hold you tonight?
Maybe if I told you the right words
Ooh, at the right time you'd be mine

Baby can I hold you tonight?
Maybe if I told you the right words
At the right time you'd be mine

You'd be mine

You'd be mine

- Tracy Chapman

Tracy Chapman

I'm writing and listening to her. OMG. There are many memories I have associated with her, but perhaps the most significant is listening to "The Promise" when Adam and I saw her in Santa Cruz early in our relationship. I leaned against him and cried.

The first time was a beautiful venue: The Greek Theatre in Berkeley. A warm August night not unlike this one, just her and her guitar under the stars. The second time was The Catalyst, Santa Cruz's grimy funky grit, and this Guy.

This. Guy.

Reposted from Facebook

Some days I really realize that reacting to things with love is the good -- if not easiest -- way.

Love in the afternoon

Observations

You're the type to say we've got to talk about this and then dance around it for three hours.

You're dangerous. You're up for anything.

Our kind of parenting

Top: Longbranch Berkeley, November 2015. Photo credit: me.

Bottom: Telegraph Beer Garden, April 2017. Photo credit: Michael Mohr.

More writing

I probably should have walked away and called an Uber or a Lyft or your friendly local Santa Barbara serial killer to transport me to the train station. Heck, I could have even walked. It would have been a long trek, but still. The worst idea was getting in Matt’s car and so that’s exactly what I’ve chosen.

For a long few moments he’s silent and it’s awful. He very deliberately concentrates on all the smallest movements: shifting into Reverse, glancing in the rear-view, backing, then switching into Drive and moving carefully, hand over hand, into a turn out of the parking lot. He frowns as he focuses on the road. The way his mouth moves tells me he’s biting his tongue, a bad habit I know he’s been trying to ditch. When he’s stressed he’ll bite it until he bleeds and then complain about how bad the blood tastes. There’s some symbolism there, but I’m not really interested in investigating it right now.

For my part, I pass the time by pretending interest in the smallest details of his car, the ones I noticed and memorized months ago: the crack in the dashboard that keeps spreading like some heinous spider who’d just crawled away from a nuclear assault; the floor mats so flat on the floor, looking like the entire world has stepped upon them with a heavy foot; the windows that are always, no matter what the weather, rolled down. Matt’s not the kind to ask whether his passengers would like them open. He just assumes that what he wants is what the world needs.

When he speaks, it sounds like he’s talking to someone so far out of his reach that he can’t possibly communicate with them in regular English. Whether that means I’m above or below him almost doesn’t matter. The point is that he and I are two people on completely different levels, that whatever thread once connected us is twisted and frayed to the point where it will just have to be cut. There seems to be no other choice. 

Just written

Something happened.

It did.

It had to have.

That’s why he doesn’t want me to tell anyone. That’s why he’s insisting that I keep this a big old secret. That’s why he’s so freaked out and pissed off and just wants to escort me out of Santa Barbara, away from him as fast and furious as possible. He doesn’t want to face it, does he? He doesn’t want to admit that he –

That he –

“Rape,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he says.

PJs and Pancakes Week

Posted this on Facebook just now

Context: Adam and Baz went down to his family's home in Los Angeles to escape the horrible air quality caused by the Wine Country fires. I remained behind. This is why.

I hope that by writing this, I can remove the rock that has sat on my chest for days.

I would have so loved to feel comfortable going down to Los Angeles with Adam and Baz. I didn't, and I don't. Of course I have a role in this. I went into my relationship with Adam hoping that his family would fill the role that mine did not, which was simply unfair.

At the same time, over the years I have fielded more rejections than I care to remember, except for the fact that I've spent the last few days remembering them all.

Having Baz down there hurts worst of all given that not one of them contacted me during my pregnancy. Again, I had a role in this. I'd talked about the dissonance publicly, blocked them from seeing much of what I'd posted on Facebook. If they weren't going to be in my life under my terms, I reasoned, they would not be there at all.

But to have my baby there when once he was in my body, once he was only mine -- yeah. That hurts.

I'm leaving this open for Adam to read because I don't want to hide anything. I don't want to hide what I write. I don't want to camouflage my feelings. You guys know me. I suck at that.

Thanks for listening.

Blaze

I woke up coughing. The news was not good. Wine Country is on fire, and the entire Bay Area is party to it.

Thus deepens the feeling of helplessness. What the hell can we do other than give money and stupid prayers that mean nothing? What can we do to make a difference?

I still have no answer, no friggin clue. I just sit here in Alameda along with the rest of the laptop denizens, pontificating, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers, thinking hopefully it won't be me. Not today, at least.

Rebecca Brown photo session, April 2017

All photos copyright Rebecca Brown Photography. Please visit her printing site at www.mpix.com.