this is not hollywood

I saw a book come across the desk at the library called "Throw out 50 Things" and it was so tempting to me even though I've made a resolution not to check out any more books until after the wedding. But when I saw that we ALSO carried the audiobook version, I was like full speed ahead. I was so excited that I could "read" it after all (since my rule doesn't apply to audiobooks).

So at the end of my shift I marched over to pull the audiobook off the shelf ... only to discover that it was abridged. Back on the shelf it went. I don't do abridged audiobooks.

The irony of it struck me, though -- it's a book about decluttering, and yet I rejected the "decluttered" version of the book.

I've culled down my CD collection pretty significantly, and even made a little money doing it, and that feels SO good. Next, I'm sliding a calculating eye toward my books. I used to have this rule that I wouldn't get rid of ANY book I hadn't read, even if the book didn't seem like something I'd EVER be interested in. I got over that and now can get rid of books I was never interested in, but still have trouble getting rid of books I haven't yet read that don't interest me much now just because they interested me once. But the real collection I've been pondering the most is my collection of retellings.

It started as a collection of King Arthur books. Then it grew to encompass other retellings -- mainly fairy tales, but Biblical retellings, too. While I get rid of most books after I've read them, I haven't gotten rid of any of the retellings because they were part of the "collection." But lately, I've been pondering culling down that collection, too -- and getting rid of all the retellings I've read already that I didn't really like. And there are a LOT of them.

I'm not really sure what the purpose of the collection is, to be honest. I like the idea of saying, look at how many different ways there are to look at Snow White! And the main joy the collection brings me is that I like the "treasure hunt" for retellings at booksales and used bookstores. But I can still have that joy while getting rid of the retellings I don't really like. And then I wouldn't resent all these books sitting on my shelf that I never really liked beyond their initial concept. 

I don't know. I'm thinking about doing this in stages -- maybe boxing up the ones I've read but didn't really like as a first step, to possibly get rid of them later down the road. But the idea of a "quality" collection taking the place of my "quantity" collection is appealing. And since I've written book reviews of most of the retellings in my collection that I've read, I still have a sort of "collection" of what's out there in my mind and in my reading history and on my "virtual" shelves. And maybe that's enough.

If anyone wants to argue for or against the dismantling of the collection, I'd love to hear from you. Ah, the things that keep me up at night!

This isn't what I came to LJ to write about, but this prompt intrigued me enough that I actually read about a page of other LJ'ers responses. It's interesting to see what makes people you don't know cry. I noticed that almost everyone who answered it had cried within the last week. That made me wonder whether recent cryers were more likely to remember the last time, and thus more apt to respond, or whether it's true that most women cry about once a week. (I read once that women, on average, cry five times a month. I did that research shortly after I started crying again after years of being stopped up emotionally. And I haven't stopped since!)

I choked up today watching North Country, but the last time I cried "for real" was last Monday night. I was writing in my paperjournal about how Ivan took time off work early in the morning rather than at lunch because I wouldn't be able to stay until lunch time. He didn't tell me ahead of time that he was doing it, just showed up as I was packing my suitcase. I thought I had said goodbye to him before he left for work, and I had a "hard deadline" for leaving and hadn't showered yet, so I told him I had to even though I wanted to spend the time with him. He spent over an hour at home with me, configuring his Android tablet so I could take it with me to Florida this weekend and (hopefully) get some writing done.

You may be wondering why writing about this made me cry. It's because positive emotion makes me cry more than negative emotion does. Kindness reduces me to tears. Writing about it drove home that it was a loving, considerate thing for him to be doing, and somehow it's really hard for me to let myself feel, deep down inside, that I'm loved. Writing about seemingly mundane moments like this drives it home to me, and then I can't contain the emotion. I also cried through church one morning after I'd blown up at Ivan for something, and he'd responded totally calmly; to know I'd shown him one of my least flattering moments and that he was still there astounded me.

I spent so long emotionally stopped up inside that I actually feel really relieved every time I have a good cry, because it reminds me that I am still in touch with what's happening inside me, and that I'm working through it presently rather than have it pop up in ugly, subconscious ways later. 

---

What I meant to write about was this conversation I had with a teen at the library today:

Him: "Hey, Lacey, do you know anything about the Hunger Games movie?"

Me: "Yeah, it's coming out in March. I'm excited about it. Are you?"

"Yeah, when I found out about it I sent Ashley a message on Facebook to see if she might want to go to it with me, but she said a group from the library is probably going. Is that true?"

"Well, we haven't talked about it yet, but I think it would be fun to get a library group together to go."

"What other movies are out right now?"

"Puss in Boots, In Time, The Immortals."

"I sorta want to go to a movie with her. I don't know why."

----

Ah, young love. <3 I recommended that he take her to Puss in Boots because she loves animals. Thank you, Facebook, for helping people fall in love!

Conversation between Some Scruffy Guy and Me while I Was on My Way to the Gas Station

"Hey, do you know where 11th street is?"
"Yeah, it's back the other way a couple blocks." <points>
"What about Duluth? I'm supposed to be at the intersection of 11th and Duluth."
"Duluth is up the hill." <points again.>
"OK, thanks." As I start to walk away, "Hey, are you a fellow Yankee?"
"What?"
"It sounds like you have a New York accent. Are you from New York?"
"No."
"I just moved here from Manhattan yesterday."
"Welcome to South Dakota."
"Thanks."
I begin to walk away again. Then what I had a feeling was coming: "You don't happen to be single, do you?"
"No."
"Oh ... all right."

----

For a moment, it was just like being in Central Hillside again.

I was in Duluth again last week, from Wednesday to Friday. I was there for a work thing, so it was the first time in a year that I'd been there without Ivan. I stayed with my friend Ginga, who I hadn't seen since the move -- two years. We quickly developed a rapport that was closer and easier than the one we'd had when we lived down the hall from each other. The conference was at the DECC, which meant I spent a lot of time in Canal Park and downtown. My old 'hood. As I left, I felt a sort of longing sickness for Duluth that has been at bay since I first moved. I think it was staying downtown, visiting all my old haunts in the name of showing people around, and being there without Ivan, that made me so nostalgic for the old days. With Ivan there, I was never able to fully sink into who I had been up there, because he could only ever see a glimpse of that. But Ginga? She saw that when she saw me. That's the only me she knows, and I so rarely have that reflected back to me. It's like this missing piece now that I'm back amongst my family and incorporating the new identity of being someone's partner. Overall, it was lovely and therapeutic and probably just what I needed as I prepare to transition to marriage, even if it was a bit sad. 

Poem #6

I.
I dream better without you
if Rumplestiltskin and mermaids
mean anything at all.
You can bathe my brain
in warm milk or else
my hand can just find my center
beneath the blankets
when I need a burst of pleasure.

II.
At midnight, he asked for the moon
and I wrapped it tightly in my secret
and sent it back.
Then I wrapped myself in cool sheets,
rolled over
and dreamed.

III.
Perhaps if I banished sugar,
laziness, rain, and blizzards,
then I could give you up, too.
Beneath my lids my eyes dart and flutter
but my heartbeat slows.
Thump.
Thump.

Once They told me
another would do just as well.
And my hands shook
Knives pounded in my temple
I crouched on a cold linoleum floor
rocked and sobbed and scribbled
waited one week and then
picked up the phone and begged Them
to give you back.

IV.
I promise I didn’t mean
for all those miles to come between us
or to notice what I always forget
when I don’t forget you.

My dreams are better without you
but my sleep quivers always
at the sharp edge of dawn.
So I know, I know
tonight I will hold you in my hands
close my eyes
and swallow you down, down.

Livejournal ate my poem about winter. :'(

Tonight No Poetry Will Serve
by Adrienne Rich

Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon's eyelid

later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere

Tonight I think
no poetry
will serve

 This morning, Ivan and I took his dad to church and then went back to his place to make us all some breakfast. Ivan headed out to buy syrup while I started on the French toast. When he got back, I noticed him fiddling with a little white box; I assumed maybe he had medication for his dad or something. Then, he held something toward me, and asked, "Lacey, will you marry me?"

He had one of those toy rings with a flashing LCD light inside it. Of course, I said yes, and kissed him. Now, we're double-engaged.




Now, for a bit of backstory:

In September, Ivan and I went to my cousin Beth's wedding. My aunt Susan had a flashing toy ring that her 14-year-old grandson had given her. How I envied that flashing ring! All I got was one of those "glow-stick" things that can be circled to make a necklace. I said, "Ivan, someday, you gotta get me a ring like that."

Later that night, Ivan started chuckling to himself. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he said, "I can't tell you now. Because I'm still not sure if I'm going to do it or not."

After we were engaged, he said he considered proposing to me with one of these rings, and he bought one (actually, he bought about six because they came in a set -- he left the other five for his dad to give to his girlfriends). But then when the time actually came to propose, he had second thoughts about making it into a "joke." (Because of the context, though, it totally would have been fine.)

Proposal number one: on Ivan's living room floor. Proposal number two:  in his dad's kitchen. Neither time had him down on one knee, but at least he knows how to bring on the bling!

Vehemently, I did protest that I should live
All my days with my
Life revolving around just one person, the only person I knew would love me
Ever more, and that was me. So I moved out to the middle of
Nowhere, a place where there was no danger of
Tripping over my own heart as
I traipsed out the door to green grass and rows of cornfields,
Never believing that one night at a Chinese restaurant with you would guarantee that nothing
Else would ever be enough.

Tower

Did I ever tell you how happy I was in that tower?
From there I saw blue water stretch out forever—
I thought the silver moon on the black lake
Was the essence of joy.

From there I saw blue water stretch out forever—
And a narrow bed is never lonely under a full moon.
Was the essence of joy
Lining up my shoes perfectly at the door?

And a narrow bed is never lonely under a full moon,
And no one ever kicks my shoes across the floor.
Lining up my shoes perfectly at the door,
I rearranged the furniture to fill the empty places.

And no one ever kicks my shoes across the floor
When the hours stretch before me like the water below
I rearrange the furniture to fill the empty places,
And I don’t wait at windows for you anymore.

When the hours stretch before me like the water below,
I thought the silver moon on the black lake
And I don’t wait at windows for you anymore.
Did I ever tell you how happy I was in that tower?
                                                                       - Nov 5, 2010

Disturb the Dandelions

Did you hear what I said
as you glanced up at TVs and waiters?
This conversation
has been choking my brain
like dandelions overrunning the lawn.
I watched them grow as I watched you shrink.

She accused me of pulling out my hair,
dropping it in the breeze like dandelion fluff
just so she could make all
those nights of crying make sense
as I kept my secrets in the room upstairs.
We can open the door to that room tonight,
even if it says
Do Not Disturb.
                                                  - Nov 30, 2010

Perhaps I'll forever miss
Joan of Arcadia
because it was the one place
where God could
look like me.