(By the way, the picture is supposed to be blurry, when you unload steel on less than six hours of sleep with a bad back, EVERYTHING IS BLURRY)
I sat down with a plop
on a wet office chair
with a back that I use
when gardening now.
The outdoor lights were on
but even with my eyes shut
I was starting to see spots
Not stars, not ocular migraines
but spots that moved.
“Ahh, this is pain,”
don’t move and it might go away.
I leaned over in my chair and heard
a crack and a pop from my spine.
I placed my hands on the floor and
stood up in a movement of full back flexion.
I quickly sat back down hard
this time on the edge of the chair.
(I was going to call this post,
starting yoga day 2,
then changed my mind.)
This afternoon was supposed to be the
last of my big steel shop moves.
I had my three boys, my bear and two friends
(one to watch Girlie, the other to move steel.)
We cleared out my garden
with a machete
harvested my potato tires
with a shovel
some purple aster
okay a lot of wild tall aster,
seven bags of soil, aged manure and mulch
everything that was buried
in the middle of the overgrown garden
including the concord grapes
tangled in the multi-floral rose
I used to kill that rose every year
with an axe.
No longer my responsibility,
I almost tried to do a good job.
I heard a British voice
asking me to cut down as much
as possible so he could mow the field.
Where the hell did he come from?
Did he show up to watch me work?
Oh, I know, the babysitter must
have been worried about
vandalism. She’s put up all
of these no trespassing signs all
over the property and the house.
A stream of obscenities flew across my brain
but stayed sealed within my lips.
Honey, nobody wants what you have.
Why must he always show up when I’m around.
My Child, kept disappearing, then ESR got called
over to help his father with something. I asked him
what he was doing and if he intended to empty the pond
liner I had put in so I could collect rain water
to water the field of food that I grew to feed us.
These requests for moving always come
weighted for his
convenience, never for mine
or the boys.
I never put my things down
on the wrong side of the building
and put large objects in front of it/on it.
He put it there for me to “keep it safe”
while making it virtually impossible to
remove without a forklift.
Two days later
and a gallon of tears wasted
on $35 of scrap makes me livid.
There are some things I need
there are some things I want
there are some things I want to throw
on the roof in defiance.
Placing steel outside requires some
forethought, some consciousness of
weed growth, cause it’s a bitch to dig in
between vines to pull out steel
and that is what he was doing with a sawzall.
He and the babysitter asked me
where I wanted the desk
that I asked for in 2012.
He is now ready for me to have my desk.
I wonder what is broken on it.
I sometimes see myself cutting
things apart with a chainsaw,
not because I am violent,
but it is a more efficient way to move a desk.
I will ask my son if he wants it
before I go back out there with
my chainsaw and an ax.
I have some wood to pick up as well.
That I can envision dragging behind
my pick up truck like a “not so light”
tin can being dragged behind it with a
“Got divorced in 2014” sign on the tailgate.
Hey “T” can you make one for me?
My ex is good for the charges on that one.
Not really. I’m being punished,
so I can’t use the broken trailer,
but I can use the broken forklift.
A Gift (with a capital “G”)
has fallen from the sky.
Just give me one rainy day
and I can do wonders with a
forklift that has no brakes,
bad steering and a bad hydraulic system.
Perhaps he underestimates my rage
about our children that could be taken
out on his car, or on the forklift itself.
I will never damage anyone else’s property.
I never lie. Especially, while broadcasting my
anger on an anonymous blog with local readers.
Perhaps my honesty
has grown to epic
proportion in his mind.
“She would never drive
the forklift into the building”
(forks embedded in wall of the building)
She would never drive
it on a rainy day and
get it stuck in the mud
(It takes three people and a wrecker to
get that thing out of the mud
ESPECIALLY if it slides into the field.)
She would never
expect me to make good
on my promises
though my babysitter and I will harass
her via email
to get what I want.
His emails are read on Mondays by a
third party who interprets them
in a way that doesn’t upset me.
I was still unloading a
*golf ball swallowing donkey poop*
moving truck filled with steel
on Monday, so I missed that meeting,
so if there is an additional email
I just won’t find out until next week
or maybe until hell freezes over.
My crate of glass is at the
far reaches of the yard in
a rotten topless box.
It feels like somebody else’s mess.
When it was getting packed away,
years ago, I vaguely
remember saying things like,
“It’s going to rot,”
“What the hell are you putting it
waaaaay back there for? and
“It would be easier
if it were in plastic buckets
that I could lift,”
My words fell upon
deaf ears as usual.
People wonder why couples get divorced when
“I had it all!”
All the what?
all the abuse
all the boys
all the responsibility
all the maintenance to do
all the luxury of having an art studio
outside of my living space.
All of this and more can be yours if the price is wrong!
Stupid people actually asked me why I gave it all up.
The grass is always greener.