Jadwiga

again, minga, again

2009-07-14T01:20:05Z

i want to say that you snuck up on me, bastille day, but your existence is never far. Mom, i still need you. I want you. I miss you. I love you. Sleep well mama. 7 years youve been gone. Endless wanting. Until next year.

cigana @ 2008-07-14T16:43:00

2008-07-14T23:45:10Z

It's Bastille Day again. 6 years you've been gone. It's still so hard. I'm at work and am crying and it's been years and it doesn't feel any easier.

Minga Beckman Jagiello
We miss you
11/21/1946-7/14/2002

I miss you Mom. I miss you so much.

cigana @ 2008-05-20T00:09:00

2008-05-20T07:16:18Z

My ex-husband's mother was killed in a freak accident. I couldn't even begin to describe the sadness. I can't even write. Death is so disabling to those left behind.

cigana @ 2008-03-17T22:51:00

2008-03-18T07:13:30Z

It breaks my heart. I haven't sat down to write in so long. My paper journal. The one my husband got me. I made a playlist and drank the perfect amount of beer. I wrote two pages and my hands hurt too much from my arthritis to write more. I took a few aleve, drank more beer and the mood remained but the physicality was gone. My hands are sore even typing. But it is easier to do this than do nothing. The baby sleeps.

I got my dream job. My dream job with my level of education. I am working as a legal assistant. I have found a way to get my education. Law School. The far off dream. Luciano Pavarotti sings to me, in Italian, but I feel like it is to me nonetheless; I understand not a word. My husband is sacrificing for this opportunity. He works horrendous hours to accommodate my desires. He works tirelessly and I don't reciprocate. I wish I knew how. I wish I could make him happy and help him to find his way to whatever end it is that makes him content. I would give him the air from my lungs right now if only he would breathe. My Deryk.

I am always so upset being in Vegas that I never let him know that I appreciate his sacrifices. My sweet husband's sacrifices for my impulsive happiness. I wish I could thank him, for all of it. Even when I am angry I am aware that without him we could not survive. He calms me, though he does not know it. He sates me, though I reveal nothing. His heart is good, though I scream at him.

My arthritis hurts, endlessly. I am too young to be incapacitated in this way, with this hurting in my joints. I feel old. I am Rushdie's Moor. I live faster than all of you. Twice my age, watching my sister grow to fruition. My mom die, my body age to uselessness. I am even listning to John Denver, singing along to the same song my mom sang endlessly in 86 when she would pick me up from pre-school.

I wish I was better for you. My husband. I wish I could show you such selflessness without turning on you in the morning. I wish I wrote you the sonnets I wrote to Alex, Jason and the ones before. But I did not know love then. Love was still poetry and like Neruda could not be translated to real life. Your dreams, I wish I could make come true. I listen to my favorite songs and my mind begs for your salvation, your ability to find those remnants of desires lost along the path of kids and marriage. Thank you for this opportunity.

Summertime and the living is easy. . .

I await our camping trip with joy.

Athina

2008-01-30T06:34:29Z

Nana Mouskouri used to sing a Greek song, "Athina" over my parents porch and they would drink chardonnay, Kendall Jackson, and talk each night after my mom got home from work. They would watch over the valley and its forests and the sun would set over the cul de saq and the national forest. It happened so often that I supposed that all parents listened to Greek music and drank wine and talked each night. life has taught me otherwise. My brother loaded my I Pod and the song just came on and Athina was blasting through my Vegas apartment with the view of the elementary school. If you go on the deck and close your eyes, it feels like an Arrowhead early fall day; before the first frost.

It was a Saturday morning at 2am, and my back seized. i had felt these cramps before. It was january 19th. Ten days ago. My upper thighs felt the same cramps and they continued. At 0337 I started to time the contractions that I did not know were contractions. I could not sleep, but my husband was sleeping and I was certain it was another pregnancy pain that would lead nowhere. I read my book, the one about the middle age reformation of a Wisconsin housewife. I still have not had time to finish the book.

The contractions were irregular and I kept trying to sleep, praying for daylight, praying for cessation, frantic for relief, finally uncertain of my readiness for the cataclysm. Deryk was sleeping in preparation for the Nevada caucus. It was Edwards all the way. I let him sleep, only awakening him to take a bath at 5am, certain the pain would cease. All the time wanting to call someone, anyone. Athina. Athina. Athina. Sawyer waiting and preparing his entrance into this world that I cannot control.

10am approached, time to awaken Deryk for the caucus. Timed contractions, irregular. Sleep fleeting. I tried to sleep in our bed, once he left and sleep would not come. He came home at 1pm and asked if we should go to the hospital. The pain was in my back, my uterus unabashedly pain free. i hesitated, worried that the trip would be useless. At 2pm I couldn't handle the pain anymore. I screamed for relief. not since she died has screaming felt like such a release. Moaning. Yelling, Sighing, Bearing it with valor. I tried all of the forms. I tried to breathe through the pain like all of the movies. Bravery was not there. I was decidedly weak and it was ok.

We drove to the hospital, Summerlin. I yelled or didn't through the contractions, certain my inexperience and inability to deal with pain was at fault and not my beautiful son. There I got out of the elevator and someone was directing traffic, she asked if i was having contractions and finally certain she sent me to labor and delivery. I was 4 cm dilated. "Almost heaven West Virginia" just came on. My mom would pick me up for the San Bernardino Montessori school after work and we would drive home and she would sing this song on repeat. The San Francisco girl always loved John Denver.

I was moved to a private room. I begged for the epidural. The baby was coming and I was certain I did not want to feel him come. By the time I was admitted, I had been in labor for 14 hours, 12 at home. That was the bravest thing I had done and would do that day. The doctor, a Giants fan, came to give me my epidural. We talked about football and my love of the Chiefs. I was at ease for the three epidural attempts. Deryk had left the room, uncertain of the giant needle poking into my spinal column. Cigarettes were more enjoyable. I was shaking and crying, holding onto the maternal nurse in the pink scrubs. I wish I could have thanked her. It was 5pm. The baby's heartbeat had dropped dramatically and they all had rushed in, but it had stabilized.

The pain was indescribable. They had said i would feel pressure with the contractions. I was crying and begging Deryk to help me. He stroked my forehead and helped me to breathe. Four in and four out. I was incredulous that so many people hailed the epidural. I tried to be brave. They came in to break my water. The sensation of the fluid and the inevitable was only increased by the catheter. I was still yelling, begging for relief, uncertain of the epidural. I would watch the contractions come on the monitor. Three minutes apart. There wasn't enough time to breathe and all i wanted to do was push. They came to roll me at 730pm and realized the epidural had not worked. The doctor came back, with his love of the Giants. This time, they got it right. Four needle marks along my spine and finally instant relief. If only it had worked before. I wanted nothing more than sleep. It had been more than 24 hours since I had felt relief. I was exhausted and only 6cm.

I would not progress beyond those 6cm. They started Pitocin. They wanted to further the contractions. The doctor had warned of c section without progression. It was 8pm and the baby's heartbeat dropped from 146 to 75. The doctor did not let it progress any further. I was taken immediately to surgery for a c section. There is a picture of me with the oxygen mask on, receiving the news that NICU had been notified and the baby was coming out now.

I was numb and they wheeled me in. There was a doctor who said I was his dream girl. I had waited perfectly between the caucus and the AFC and NFC championship games to deliver the baby. I felt nothing from my breasts down. I touched my belly one last time. I felt the cutting and the tearing. i heard the doctor saying pull. Then I heard the cry. Sawyer. My son. he cried and he made his entrance. It was 828pm. Deryk was taking pictures. I started to cry, not seeing, only waiting to be stitched up. waiting, waiting, waiting. I heard he was 8lbs 7oz. His head was huge and they laughed that he would not fit out of me. They spoke of the caucus. My son cried and i waited. Deryk was laughing and crying. I waited. After 15 minutes i was stitched. I was put back together. Sawyer was brought to me. I cried.

It was been a whirlwind for the past ten days. he is sleeping now. He should wake in 35 minutes to be fed. He is beautiful and looks so much like me as a baby. I cannot form the words that express the love that I feel. I close my eyes and see his face, certain that I have known him my whole life. I have completed the circle of life. I have produced something that ultimately came from my mother. he has dark hair, his father's eyelashes and widow's peak. he looks like a Jagiello. I cry when I hold him because I realize the vulnerability of loving something this much. He is like my first love, before I had learned of betrayal. To love that strongly again.

He lifts his head to feed and opens his slate colored eyes. Athina plays and someday, in 30 years he will feel the same thing about his children. he will recall how his father and I interacted and loved. I see him and realize he will outlive me and he will recall me. He will know Athina. I love Deryk more than I have ever loved a man. He has usurped Alex and all the others in every way. My life is more content now than it has ever been. I love my son and I love my husband and I am sated. I am finally sated. For years I have awaited the great adventure. I have waited and searched for and journeyed to find this. This which comes to every human being. the sense of belonging and certain of belonging. I await his cry and his search for the breast. I cry that he does not grow too fast. I will teach him of his Bushia and her evenings on the porch and I will help him cultivate his own sense of belonging and his own memories.

cigana @ 2007-10-23T23:00:00

2007-10-24T06:01:40Z

The fires came back, seizing the side of Lake Arrowhead that 2003 did not get. There are three house in the neighborhood left standing, ours is one of them.

cigana @ 2007-08-23T01:15:00

2007-08-23T08:30:25Z

There was a day in february, it was a night. I couldn't sleep so I went to the gym and then met a friend for a drink in a run down bar on the East side of Vegas. We were drinking and made the 7am decision (after being awake all night) to go camping. We both missed the stars, away from the orange light nimbus of Vegas street lights. We drove to Zion. Six months later and we are married, our son to be born on January 14. My son. Soon I will have a son.

It's 2am and Hendrix is "All Along the Watchtower," I am not at home with my husband, I am working and drinking apple juice, dreaming preposterous baby names. My life having changed so perfectly. I spent so many years with people and around people who sucked at my life and rearranged my soul. But, last night it was almost dawn and we were lying in bed, my belly protruding fantastically and my husband rubbed my stomach and I think it was the most affectionate moment of my life.

cigana @ 2007-07-14T18:10:00

2007-07-15T01:13:52Z

1/2 decade.

It is Bastille Day again. It is easier this year than in years passed. It is still difficult.

I miss you mom.

I am pregnant and married now. I will be a Mom myself soon.

I still miss you Minga and I wish you were here for all of this. I love you.

July 14, 2002

cigana @ 2007-05-26T17:47:00

2007-05-27T00:47:57Z

It appears that I am pregnant. Wow.

cigana @ 2006-07-14T03:01:00

2006-07-14T10:02:58Z

We could never forget Bastille Day could we?

4 years

Love is so short, forgetting so long

I miss you mom.

Nov 21, 1946- July 14, 2002

Sweet Minga.

cigana @ 2006-02-16T22:45:00

2006-02-17T06:47:30Z

He's gone. I'm living in Vegas. Job is good. Life is okay. How can you wilingly allow yourself to say goodbye. There is only one "x" on my calender. come home Alex, I miss your laugh.

cigana @ 2006-01-12T08:21:00

2006-01-12T16:23:06Z

Here's the start of another adventure. I'm moving to vegas. As of Feb I will no longer be a Cali resident. I am dropping Alex off at the boat and with my car packed I am getting out of town. It's been far too long since my last adventure. "I was runnin down the road trying to loosen my load. . ." The song plays everytime I pass over Cali state lines and head somewhere else.

cigana @ 2006-01-11T09:19:00

2006-01-11T17:19:01Z

It was a frozen reservoir. I was going 80 and he passed me going 90, the snow burned my face where the helmet didn’t cover. There were no other tracks in sight. I’d like to think it’s because no one had ever been there before, more than likely it was the foot of snow that had fallen in the mid-Idahoan mountains the night before. I followed them up a mountain trail, trying to keep the snowmobile from veering off into the trees. We stopped at the bottom of jagged cliffs and we were eating frozen snickers as the huge snowflakes covered more and more of the terrain. It was day two of our snowmobiling adventures, day five of our vacation and we were 1940s Paris epic. All of the logic that has told us to walk away was buried under the snow that the avalanche signs warned of and we were stripped bare, down to us. Ten days was spent in Idaho, in the snow and in the bars and as we stepped off of the plane back into San Diego the warmth accosted us and we were cleansed. We could never resist our truth, each other. He is on ship now, will be home just before he deploys in February and February ** finally starts the long odyssey we’ve been waiting for, dreading.

A Tout Alors, Bayba

2005-12-20T16:37:30Z

And so, like most other things in my life, he too has passed. As we lay last night wrapped in one another's arms, strangely platonically, knowing that we had made a decision to try our lives on our own and become better people before we were together again, I watched him sleep and each breath broke my heart into a million different little pieces and he inhaled and put it back exhaled and it broke again. All night. And I awoke with his smell on my skin and I am at work trying to figure out how all the pieces fit together again. He deploys soon and it finally doesn't matter anymore and I wish I could've stopped it from happening and I can't believe I lost my best friend.

cigana @ 2005-12-02T16:37:00

2005-12-03T00:42:38Z

A voice breaks the silence for two minutes in the middle of the night. A rushed call with rushed words that I do not recall from my nyquil, flu induced slumber; but I am sure they were dripping with sweetness and I am sure I said I miss you and now I drive home from work to the quiet, empty mountains, to my quiet life and I'll sit for the weekend and drink and watch football and pray for the phone to ring, while I crochet and make Christmas cards that I'll stick copies of our picture into.

10 Marines died today, or maybe yesterday and I am too scared to even think about what it must be like for those families.

cigana @ 2005-11-21T15:24:00

2005-11-21T23:29:39Z

happy Birthday Mama

You would have been 59 today, but you died 3 1/2 years ago and you stay a young 55 to us all. I would have gotten you something soft and we would have had tea and I would have asked you about getting older and told you that I'm so happy where I am at and tell you that you did well raising me. There isn't much left to say after so many years since you left, but i'll never forget this day and I'll never stop counting your age and what age you should've been and I will never not shed a few tears today and on Bastille Day and I will never forget your sweet sweet smile. I love you Great Momoo, I wish you were here more than I wish for anything in this world. Come to me in my dreams and we'll speak of all the things we would have spoken of today. Happy 59th Birthday Minga, I wish you could have seen what a beautiful day it is outside. Although, yesterday Alex saw a hummingbird following me, so maybe you have.

I love you

cigana @ 2005-11-10T11:18:00

2005-11-10T19:18:55Z

Through everything that happened after my mom died I never sought any professional help or medication. I kind of liked having myriad issues and I enjoyed the pain. However I recently started this anxiety medication that makes me feel nothing, no emotions, at the same time I feel constantly drunk. I thought I was going to die on the way home from work yesterday because I was seeing double. Oh, and forget taking it with even a drop of alcohol. I attempted to punch Alex for not knowing where my cell phone was after having a couple of beers. He just laughed at the idea of a 5’2 girl trying to beat up a 5’10 Marine. I guess I tried my damndest, well until I fell over and he had to carry me a ½ mile to his place where I proceeded to throw up and then call his dad at 1am crying. My recollection of the events involve me crying to his dad that I had tried to hit his son and that I didn’t deserve such a great guy. If I ever needed any indication of just how fucked up I am. . .I have it now. (PS-I like using ellipses and I always will—I am pretty sure that’s what they’re called). So my medication has 8 million side effects. A-I act drunk constantly, my boss even asked me if I was drunk and then I went into a drunk like explanation about why I am acting crazy. . .whimper Alex left, my dad’s an asshole, my life is mediocre, I miss my mom. . .bitch please. I am just like every other person out there, except now I feel nothing. And here are the side effects of feeling nothing. . .I have logically realized that my college career appears to be going nowhere I am thus applying to BSU (Boise State) and University of Montana. Not that they’re overwhelmingly academic institutions, but they are exactly in the places I want to spend the rest of my life. Alex and his plans to marry me isn’t going to like this too much, although he’ll tell me to go and chase my craziness around further. Normally my craziness goes in circles throughout SoCal, I am now expanding my craziness to the Rockies and Rocky related states; where I learned they actually do eat Rocky Mountain Oysters and call creeks cricks. Stupid mountain people. So, I am left to wonder if we’re actually going to make it, if I leave and go to school next fall in his hometown when he’s not home. But that’s beside the point. The point is that Larry Johnson made that one run push over the Raiders offensive line, the point is that I am so deliriously out of it that I can’t think straight, the point is that he’s in the middle of that great big ocean and I haven’t heard his voice for days and if I weren’t so doped up I’d be crying because I miss being called lemon pie. The point is. . .I don’t know if I can make it. The point really, truly is that no one actually gives a fuck except me. I have this little vile of small white pills that keep me thinking logically. They aren’t anxiety meds, they’re logic meds. . .no emotion. I am going to test the theory tonight with my mom’s ashes. . .if I don’t cry then these little white pills have officially sucked out my emotion.

But this entry is so dismal, just like all of my entries. I know there’s good stuff too. I had to sneak out of the Chiefs Chargers game because my team lost and I ran my mouth the whole time. Last night I danced around my bedroom while listening to Johnny Cash, and yes you can dance alone listening to Johnny Cash. Oh and I tattoed a dragon on the back of my neck, cause seriously, who need a corporate job (oh will I regret that one) and and and I dressed up in cammies just to see what I would look like as a Marine. . .not so hot, I am a much better civilian. Oh and I love pirates.

Oh and Happy 230th Birthday to the United States Marine Corps

cigana @ 2005-10-20T11:48:00

2005-10-20T18:48:02Z

I pick him up in six hours. He’s only been gone three weeks this time. Three weeks is not so long afterall. But I have two more weekends left, that is all. He will go away for 1 ½ months and train. I will go to Europe. He will go home on leave and then he will deploy. Funny, but he actually is going to the sandbox. I should know better than to believe what the Marine Corps says, of all people I should know better. Six hours six hours six hours. I have a six pack of Kokanee in my car. It’s a Canadian beer I had his best friend send me. It’s his favorite. I am in a new skirt and actually wore make-up today. Six hours six hours six hours. In six hours I kick off our last five days together for an infinitely long time. I am excited to see him, but it was only three weeks afterall, and once these five days start (three this week, two next) it means that tomorrow there will be four and so on and soon there won’t be any. So for over a year this journal gets a monthly entry on the state of “us” and that is all. I write of other things in other places when it’s late and there is whiskey. I wrote more letters to the people I love. But in six hours I start the final countdown, the one that has been coming for 1 ½ years. It’s always been,

so when are you leaving me oceanic eyes? He replies, you named me after a Neruda poem and I am not sure. But oceanic eyes, when are you coming home? I’ll be home soon, just like your poem, the other one at the back of the short book written by a captain.

Farewell, but you will be
with me, you will go within
a drop of blood circulating in my veins
or Outside, a kiss that burns my Face
or a belt of fire at my waist.
My sweet, accept
the great love that came out of my life
and that in you found no territory
like the explorer lost
in the isles of bread and honey.
I found you after
the storm,
the rain washed the air
and in the water
your sweet feet gleamed like fishes.

Adored one, I am off to my fighting.

I don’t post the whole thing because I have a half dozen times before and because it is private, so private. Private like the entries I haven’t written because I don’t wish to give the paper or the keyboard or the computer screen my words and my thoughts. Private because I am scared, and for once I am not scared for me. I can be such a selfish bitch.

Six hours is closing in on five. Last night I washed and waxed his Harley and put away all of his tools that I had been using over the course of the past few weeks to try my hand at woodwork. I made sure the room and bathroom were clean. My domesticity sickens me at times. I sewed a rip in his favorite pajama pants, and once done I looked at his picture watching over the bed and cried like a little girl, had a drink (or two or three or four) and slept. I left his cello concerto playing on repeat.

And this weekend, we’ll go for a long ride, work on my tattoo outline. I am making a pesto scampi on angel hair. I must work and study. There will be football. There will be spooning and him sleeping and me watching and wondering where whoever I was two years ago went. It was sucked into some vortex once the single life ended. And he has asked my father for permission to marry me. He has not asked my permission. I am waiting. Six hours, five days and then 9 months. . .9 months of being glued to the news and waiting. That sudden reaction you get whenever you hear “Marine killed in Iraq.” But but but was he in a helicopter, were his eyes blue, did he have thick blonde hair and a widows peak? Could he play the cello? Did he have a half sleeve on his right arm, and did it have cherry blossoms? Was he wearing a silver ring on his dog tags? Could he speak Euskadi, and would he laugh at me for probably misspelling the language anyhow? Was he the one who could fix anything with an engine and wants to move home to Boise? Was his best friend named Dusty and his God son named Braden? Did he love a black eyed girl, she had curly hair once and it’s going straight? Oh no that’s not him then, ok well move along, sorry to waste your time. Rinse repeat ad nauseum.

All of my romantic notions never prepared me for this, any of this. Six hours, now five and I’ll see him soon. I’ll run my hands over those callouses he gets when he’s been shooting, chastising him for not using sunscreen, curling up for the car ride home and secretly turning on the seat warmers so that he thinks he’s having hot flashes. We’ll speak of everything normal. My dad getting married, Ari turning 18, Bobby’s new job offer, Dusty and Hailey. We’ll talk about the Chiefs game and what we’ll name our pumpkin this year (I’m aiming for Rupert). I’ll balk that he didn’t get me a camel yet and remind him that if I move with him to Idaho he promised me a llama. We’re supposed to go look at puppies this weekend, our feeble attempt to bring something into this world (yes yes it was already here) and care for it together. I am certain I will name it some cutesy Marine Corps related name and it will sleep at the foot of my bed. But we won’t speak of the inertia I am feeling. Nor will we talk about how we need to get his will in order or what to do if something bad happens. I have everything he owns with me. I don’t know how to take care of the Harley or how to tell the difference between brown recluses and house spiders. Everytime I see a spider in the house I am certain it is a brown recluse and I spend an hour watching it and hunting it down to find the perfect time to kill it, so that I won’t get bitten and have my skin waste away. Most of the time they’re house spiders and he cups them in his hands and gets rid of them. We don’t speak of whether or not he’s scared, sometimes when he’s drunk he tells me and I see his eyes glaze over a bit. Most of the time we talk with the lights out, in the middle of the night and just hold each other. He told me that the Marine Corps prepares you for war but doesn’t prepare you to leave. There’s no formal training to make this better.

Five hours, five hours, five hours. He called me as they’re loading up the convoy, heading home from the desert. We’re stopping by the porn shop and then to drop off uniforms. He’s making dinner. In my mind I am practicing. . .run jump kiss twirl run jump kiss twirl run jump kiss twirl. This time it is never ad nauseum. He will drive me to work in the morning, and pick me up and for the next two weekends we’ll pretend that every last bit of this is normal. Our usual routine, the mountain nights. And in two weeks it disappears.

And when the sadness that I hate comes
to knock at your door,
tell her that I am waiting for you
and when loneliness wants you to change
the ring in which my name is written,
tell loneliness to talk with me,
that I had to go away
because I am a soldier,
and that there where I am,
under rain or under
fire,
my love, I wait for you.

5 Hours. 5 Days. 9 Months

my feet are firm upon the earth,
my hand writes this letter on the road,
and in the midst of life I shall be
always
beside the friend, facing the enemy,
with your name on my mouth
and a kiss that never
broke away from yours.

cigana @ 2005-05-17T13:54:00

2005-05-17T20:56:15Z

I went through, sorted out and hid the last years worth of entries. I think that I am going to keep all of my entries hidden from this point on. I don't like my words dangling in the wind.

cigana @ 2004-06-05T07:08:00

2004-06-05T14:10:43Z

We celebrated last night. The corner pocket, with it's group of executives and bikers all drinking and listening to live music. We celebrated last night. . .we celebrated my promotion!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ha!

cigana @ 2004-06-04T02:01:00

2004-06-04T09:03:17Z

And every Thursday night I write princess stories. Because Thursday nights need princess stories and each week our fair heroines would have new adventures. I would write the stories and send them to her at school, attending the last class we both knew the princess stories were over. Because you can't be a princess forever, no matetr how hard you try. So 3:43 is gone as well, taking the garage alarm code of 1222 and footsteps that have traversed those same floors from our younger years.

I feel like it is just Ariana and me in this world. . .sometimes. Late the other night, while my hand was bleeding and I had been drinking with a perfect group of Southern Californians, I called Chalupa. Perhaps, I could feel real for a second. Perhaps it didn't involve going through the motions. But, none of the 87 names saved in my phone book could infuse my world with an obligatory sense of reality.

So, I set home, having one of those perfect So Cal boys drop me at work so that Squishy could drop me off at the apartment. We rode home in a conversation of princess stories and how there would only be one more. The distorted reality where she and I take on our enemies with fiery vengence. I checked my phone book again, maybe there was an 88th name that I had skipped over, one to instill a hope in reality. That is what I needed, I needed hope. I needed hope like I needed my mom's pesto in the year after she died. i needed hope like money for rent. . .finally I needed hope like air. Knowing that if I did not get some soon I would eventually drown and I could have spoken to every person I know and made everyone proclaim their love for me and it would not have been reality.

So, I got home and I got out the urn. I took the ashes out of it, well the plastic bag, and I saw reality. Back into the urn they went, in the late night and I tucked the closed urn under my quilt with me. My mom and i read a few philosophical essays before I broke into conversation with her, my 88th person. And I asked her gently to give me hope. I waited like a Christian waits for an answer to their prayers. . .I didn't feel any different. I asked a bit louder, "Mom, show me hope." Nothing. I was making her my God, but damnit I needed some fucking hope. My hand was bleeding and i was crying and every soul I could have contacted would have gone right back to sleep. So i put the urn down and yelled for hope, I screamed for hope and I collapsed exhausted. Hope did not come, but sleep came.

The next day i awakened. I spent a few hours at work constructing a make believe world, on paper. I wrote it to AE, and told him how Sisyphus and Candide were drinking wine together because, goddamnit, Sisyphus let that fucking rock roll down the hill and it gained momentum. It rolled and rolled and it flew off the face of the earth. I made a world where my mom cooked me pesto, where I loved a green eyed boy that I just met and Zorba came to dinner. . .because we had endless hope.

And now, two days later. 40 hours into a 60 hour work week. . .I am at work and I still have no hope. But, it will have to be ok. perhaps I will have wonder instead. perhaps I will have fear. perhaps i will have love. This weekend perhaps i will have sex with the green eyed boy. Ari will kiss her new boy, because he gives her hope and she is happy. This weekend, I will sleep and not in exhaustion and not from screaming. This weekend, I will make pesto.

cigana @ 2004-05-31T05:43:00

2004-05-31T12:45:39Z

I valliantly try to stay mad at Demon and it never ever works. I get some foreign looking number on my phone at weird hours with no voicemail and I automatically assume it's him and forget to be upset and instead think of camels

cigana @ 2004-05-31T05:02:00

2004-05-31T12:03:45Z

Last night I had a dream that I was this boy Nick Garcia. We dated in Junior High and I was a bitch. Now i have this driving desire to find him and see how he is. He has one of the most simple names in the world and i only remember that he was a raiders fan, in my book that was a good enough reason to break up with him. I wonder if I can find him. hmmm

cigana @ 2004-05-28T13:04:00

2004-05-28T20:06:29Z

Employment Rules to Live By (If you don't want me to bad mouth you as an employee for the rest of your life):

1-Give more than five days notice when you want to resign
2-Do not attack me outside of work and provoke a physical fight
a-If you do so, you should win
3-Do NOTcall in 2 hours before your shift on Memorial Day weekend in order to quit two days earlier than your already short resignation time, if you are forced to do this; the following conversation is not appropriate:
"I can't work there anymore, i won't be coming in today or tomorrow. bye." dial tone

For the reasons above there is a middle aged woman whom I will now have to finish off and have her body thrown into a vacant ravine filled with camel spiders, scorpions and ogres (blue, not green)

That is all.

PS- I have a new plan to woe and then wed wladimir klitschko and have mass amounts of slavic babies while discussing the home land of the Ukraine while he makes his fortunes by severely beating people. . .indeed

cigana @ 2004-05-27T00:33:00

2004-05-27T07:33:08Z

I got into a fight at work, outside of work. It was violent. I am tired now and the adrenaline has ceased. I will now proceed to curl up into a little ball and cry.