Book 'em Jano

Like other writers I know and commiserate with, I have more writings in notebooks than I can possibly transcribe into this computer and enshrine for perpetuity.  I keep a notebook in my purse, in my car, on my nightstand.  There are several strewn about on the ottoman at all times.  I'd like to tell you that I am organized and keep different notebooks for different genres or classes.  It wouldn't so much be a lie as an inaccuracy.  I try to stay orderly but my creativity overrides and I just pick up the nearest lined collection of blank pages and a writing implement and scribble.

Truthfully I love these random notebooks.  They have provided me nostalgia and humor over the last few years.  I wrote that?  (please take the time to say this three times - stressing a different word with each iteration - they all hold weight!)  If I do manage to tap a full notebook into my keyboard I gleefully write done! and the date on the cover and put it up in my closet.  I kvell* with a small sense of pride for a short while before remembering that a few less notebooks in my personal space is not much of an accomplishment.

Some ramblings will probably never be entered into my hard drive.  They were for me and me alone.  Many times I have advised friends who wanted to say something to someone (like an ex...) to just write it down and burn the paper.  I've done plenty of writing to my former significant other, but unlike Terry Barton** I know better than to go in the forest and strike a match to my penciled down pain.

My struggle du jour is much of what I've written about my wusband is good.  Readable, relatable, funny and true.  Well, mostly true.  OK - I've stretched the truth in some of it for comedic effect, but it is good.  I haven't posted much of this and that is my dilemma.  Would it be hurtful to blog about the father of my three children?  Either from my perspective or through the stories of anguish and pain my children still experience in their relationships with him.  (I admit, I snuck that in)  Would I be opening myself up to some kind of lawsuit if he could prove that he really did pay the child support?  Would his family with whom I still have good relationships be upset because appearances are everything and I could dispel that with a few keystrokes?  Decisions, decisions.

Mainly, would I just be proving to myself and others that even though I am divorced for ten years, I am still obsessed with this man?  That is the last perception I want to portray or ponder.  Would it just prove the theory of the elephant in the room?  I have unresolved 'issues' with my ex and use the closest weapon I have to protect myself.  Pen and paper.  Can I say I have let go if I actually go on and on and on... ?

Or is it just verification that I am able to live my life quite fully, actively involved with my three children and grandson in a way that I feel good about.  That I enjoy eating what I want, when I want. That the arguing, voice raising, the having to be right, are distant but still in my DNA.  That is certainly a theme in my musings.  Under the surface, but not boiling in any way.  They just are.  I'm OK with that.

I see my wusband less and less as years go by.  In the beginning of the end, it was hard to talk to him about anything and not be emotional.  Now I am quite neutral.  I don't have any pangs of want or regret.  I also don't want to kill him.  I'd call that a good spot.

Here are two short poems I wrote in the last year concerning the aforementioned subject.  Enjoy!

 

No Vacancy

Sorry, there is no vacancy in my heart

No subletting space to you, even briefly

No room to see if opening leads to heartache

I am not willing to take the chance

When we were together, married

I always had space for you, availability

I’d let you stay in my mind, and you would sting me

Now the chamber of my heart that was once

Exclusively reserved for you is

Permanently occupied by indifference

Tap-Tap

I detest the tap-tapping of the razor

Against the sink, tub wall

Each thundering shower I take

Reminds me of this repetitive intrusion

I was taking a trip to a warmer clime

So, a shave was in order for

Bathing suits and social norms

I stood in the cramped stall

Of the YMCA, tap-tapping my razor

For the next clean stroke

How effortlessly my mind drifted to my wusband

That tap-tapping of his razor

Each morning tap-tapping on his

Side of the double vanity

Tap-tap   tap-tap   tap-tap

And then I knew

It isn’t shaving I dislike

It is my ex husband

Time to Write,

Jane


*M-W definition of Kvell
**Hayman Fire - Wikipedia