Little Things

There has been something I’ve been struggling with about telling you. It’s a subject that those of you who have been following along for a while now, will know everything about. And those of you who have been following along since around 3/21/13, will not. I was still on the fence about discussing this subject, until The Daily Post begged us today to talk about Little Things.

You see, as a result of the recent life changes that have been tossing me about (again, if you’ve begun following only since late March, you’ll just have ask the person seated next to you what I’m speaking of, because you’ll no longer find any mention of it here), there was one final – and heartbreaking – decision that had to be made.

The children we were tasked with caring for, while their mother got back on her feet, were no longer best served by living in our house. We – I – had to let them go. As was the case before we initially brought them in, I once again asked my kids their opinion, and ensured that we were all first in agreement. The little ones were slated to be reunited with their mom in June anyway, but that in no way made the decision – nor the subsequent call to Child Protective Services – any easier.

I explained the current situation, and broke down slightly, apologizing while saying we were going to have to back out. The case worker was very kind in thanking us for everything we had already done (especially considering there was no kinship involved), and said that she would be happy to try to get the children relocated promptly.

As fate would have it, of all the life tossing going on just now, this solitary item may have turned out to be the one blessing in disguise; as it was determined that instead of placing them anew, the children would simply be reunited with their mom (who is doing well) earlier than anticipated.

So they are gone now, and out of my life. Most likely forever.

After we had packed their lives into the over-sized pickup truck that their mother’s friend trundled into our driveway and had seen them on their way, Ian (my youngest) and I retreated to the house where I, in an extraordinary feat of extreme manhood, fell to the bed weeping. Ian, being just about one of the most empathetic people I know, softly patted my back and in response to my moan of being sorry that I was failing everyone, said simply and calmly, “daddy, you are not failing anyone.”

I hope he’s right. And I hope that these two little things – these two precious and beautiful little things who invaded my life for almost a year, and opened my eyes to a whole different world – will never be overlooked again. Not by their mother nor the system sworn to protect them.

I still don’t know what it was all about – us taking them in, that is – or if it helped in the least that we did. And please don’t tell me blindly that it will all just be worth it in the end. There hasn’t been one soul yet who has been able to make me buy that line. I have a sort of a “Now just what were You thinking?” finger wag list that I’m compiling, and when I do meet God, “whatever became of these two little things” will be one of the questions pretty damned high up on that list.

Yamil and Delilah, I know you’ll never see this. But I want you to know that I hope you have fond memories of your time with us. I hope that God continues to bless you on your journey, and I hope – I pray – that whatever it was I was supposed to do for you, I did.

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I will miss you Little Things. You crazy, obnoxious, pains-in-the-ass and simply beautiful little things. Please, go in peace.

Changes.

And no Lance, this does NOT mean that I will be ending today’s post with the Bowie song of the same name.

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Hey, did you know that I now have 200 followers? Pretty cool, that! And yeah Renee, I know that you average about that amount in new followers per week, but it’s a big deal for me, OK? So anyway, my point was, I have over 200 followers (did I mention before that it was actually over 200 followers?) But instead of writing for them, and enjoying myself with them, I’m just whittling my time away by moping about in an internetless corner. Sucking my thumb while rocking to and fro with the usual “woe is me’s.”

Not cool t, not cool.

So back to the keyboard I’ll be going. Seems to make sense, especially as I am getting ready to have a LOT more “quality me time” than previously enjoyed these past 17 years. I know, I know, “That’s not a change t, just a schedule update.” And right you are. No, the change has to deal with my focus. Moving forward I plan on sticking mostly to writing fiction from this site. This is in part because I truly enjoy it (even if my stories never actually go anywhere), and also because the bad feelings I have to express, I will no longer feel comfortable doing so here.

Those feelings will still have to come out – painfully plucked one by one, lest there be even greater future distress, should they be ignored now – so I plan on starting a second (anonymous again) blog to address these. Should you wish to read along there, please send me an email, making sure you tell me whose Blog parent you are (cue the announcers deep and woodsy voice: sorry, but this offer is only available to current friends and followers of aslongasimsinging.wordpress.com), and I can get you a link to the new address once it’s up and running (4/25 update: in fact, I’ve already pulled the last three posts from this site detailing the recent events, and placed them over there for continuity sake).

And speaking of anonymity, this site will no longer be so.

Yay!

First off, you’ve all been so good to me, and I’ve been blessed with so many “wouldn’t know you in a crowd, but I love you out here in Blogsville” friendships, it seems a shame to continue on with the charade. Secondly, as I knew that C was a private person, and as I also knew that I intended on writing about her often, I originally left names out of it. But seeing now as I can’t fathom any more posts of that nature coming across your screen from here, I think we’re good with retiring the whole “man behind the curtain” routine.

One last change as well kids, and then I’ll let you go. I am going to try hard to provide you with quality over quantity, so I may not be as regular as I was before in my schedule (say it with a soft “c,” it’s a hell of a lot sexier that way). Please know that  won’t mean that anything is necessarily wrong, it’ll just mean that I haven’t yet found for a particular post, the best words to, umm, well to… I mean, well – oh hell! You get the picture, right?

Listen kids, I’ve been a little weird as of late, and I’m sorry about that. I’m still not 100%, but I now see that someday I will be, just in a fashion wholly new and different from before. It’s taken me a while to recognize this, but as David Bowie once said, I’m “just gonna have to be a different man,” and be cool with that fact.

Oh crap! Now I DO have to end this post with his song of the same name!

Peace,

t

Changes…

If I were a Drag Queen, she would be my Drag Mother.

No, scratch that. That’s not what I meant.

What I meant was this: she is to me, the Bloggerish version of what a Drag Mother would be.

There, that’s better.

More experienced than I, she took me under her wing – for no reasonable reason – and let me know point blank how it should be. She followed my posts, and freely told me what I was doing right. She honestly told me what I was doing wrong as well. Lovingly holding my feet to the flame when she felt – knew, really – that I could do better. And, when I was truly beginning to doubt what it all meant, to the point of voicing ideas about reinventing myself as a woman (again, in a bloggerish fashion only, as an actual operation would be far too costly); she took the time to privately message me, letting me know that change was good. Possible. That sometimes it was quite all right to shake things up and strip ’em down. Or, if the WordPress Daily Post people are reading along, to “start over.”

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And so it is.

And so I will. I mean, change implies growth, and growth is indicative of, well, growth. As such, moving forward this bloggie of mine will need to grow along with me (first point of concern – stop calling it a “bloggie.”) I’m going to trim some fat. Need to copy a paper on the merits of same-sex marriage for PSYCH101? Better snag it quick, as “stuff i have to write for school” is going bye-bye. Older posts too, may fall off the screen, as I re-tweak the site to satisfy my current outlook, and present a more polished appearance.

I’m going to get involved with more prompts as well (you’ve been warned, Prompt People!) I like these exercises, because they force me to focus more on form and fiction, and less on my usual lackadaisical pissery. Rest assured, you’ll most likely still get a mouthful from me at least once a week about some sort of imagined injustice or “woe is me,” but for the most part, this kid is going to try to keep things tight from here on out. Like Morrissey, I’ll now channel my mopey nature in an effort to be all creative n’ stuff – instead of just sitting around being mopey, like Morrissey.

Esthetically speaking, I’m none to sure if I’ll change the look of the site overall, but I can tell you this, the Darin Love ain’t going anywhere. I connect on a lot of levels with BD, and though my readership is small, I’ve got to continue to spread the gospel of Darin – yes – even “beyond the sea” if need be, funny guy.

Speaking of, the music will stay as well. I mean, how could it not? As it was my first-ever best friend, and a constant companion even these 43 years later. I can’t promise you anything current as, with age comes the belief that nothing new is “as good as,” and therefore worth investigating. But I can tell that every post will continue to have a link of some sort at the bottom to sonically reward you for your patronage. In truth, I sometimes think it’s my biggest draw.

Hey, what’s my word count?

553?

Cool, time to wrap it up then. Drag Mother hates when I bloat my posts with unwarranted and wasted words.

So, there we have it. Change is good, starting over, quite all right as needed. I know that it’s a lesson I learned a long time ago, but apparently one that I need to be re-educated on from time to time as well. I’m excited to see what comes next. Thanks Drag Mom for the confidence. Thanks WordPress for the prompt that forced my hand on this decision. And as always, thanks to all of you screw bags who continue to read along =)

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What? You didn’t think I was actually going to ignore my music snobbery, and pull the obvious Bowie card here, did you?

If.

If I had to do it all over again…

I would still be the same me. In the same time. Facing the same issues. With the same experience and knowledge. The same fears and shortcomings.

I would still see life as I do. I would still react as I’m currently prone to. I would still stumble/get back up/brush myself off/stumble again, in very much the same way as I do now.

So, if I had to do it all over again,

I would do it again, in exactly the same way that I did it the first time.

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Recycling thoughts

The ancient woman stood there staring – just a little too long – at the recycling bin that was almost her height. No words were exchanged between her and I, nor she and it. But the look in her eyes spoke volumes. It almost seemed as if she was desperately trying to figure out this brave new world, wondering if she still had a place in it. And just what in the hell it all meant anymore any way.

It wasn’t until long after our paths crossed, that it dawned on me that her hair was blonde. And at her age, most assuredly not the kind of blond that sprouts naturally from the head. No, this blond was much more bottle-fed than breast. The hair was carefully quaffed as well. Silently sitting atop her head, with what had to be at least half a can’s worth of hairspray holding it up to the heavens. Reaching upwards to the very place it seemed she would surely be going to sooner, rather than later. Now, all of that has nothing to do whatsoever with the first part of this post of course, with the possible exception of this: while it was pretty clear that the concept of recycling was alien to her, the concept of defying the aging process was not. I suppose some sciences are just easier to understand than others. Especially the ones that are in place to help us to feel young and pretty.

Not to necessarily define recycling as a “science” per say. For it’s much more just about being a responsible and good steward to the earth and future generations, than it is anything else. As a concept however, it’s relatively new, and to one of her generation, one that was never a very large concern before. Why should it be now? Hers was the generation that scrabbled out from under the Great Depression. Hers was the generation that destroyed Hitler’s dream of an Aryan wonder world, one “free” of God’s chosen people. Hers was the generation who picked us up as a country – as a species even – and firmly plunked us upon the road that we now travel upon. Faster and faster every day. Hadn’t her generation done enough already? Hasn’t her generation paid every price possible? Now they also have to separate the damned cans from the garbage? Now they have to lug not one, but TWO heavy, clunky, and generally smelly bins to the curbside and back, each and every week? Now, after diligently taking care of so many yesterdays, they need to be concerned about tomorrow? Again? For what?

If indeed those were the questions she was asking, and the thoughts that were rummaging through her head, I had not an answer for her. As I was in a sour mood already, I was in no place to remind her that future generations would also need these resources. Future generations would benefit from us not using up every last one of them. I was not the one to tell her any of that. Especially when I knew that she could have just as easily responded with “what future generations? The future generations that will once again blow the banks while they push for their own greed and want? The future generations that will give birth to the future Hitlers? The future generation’s mad men who will devise yet even more plans and ways to kill the future generations themselves? The future generations that won’t share, won’t learn and won’t keep the peace? Those future generations? The very ones who will continue to spread the disease? The cancer that we are? Who needs them? Honestly, who?”

I know she could say that, and I know that my response would be – for now at least – that of silence. Who indeed? I suppose God for one, for it was He (“She”, “It”, whatever) who put the plan into action in the first. But the question the woman didn’t raise as a result of the conversation we didn’t have is an interesting one – who does need the future? Who needs the present even? Well, I suppose we all do. I mean, to ask the dumbest question ever (and you had been told that there were none…), what is life without life? What is the present, without the past to remember, or the future to hope for? And what good is a future without any of us to inhabit it? In short, what is so hard about our just rolling with it (life, that is), and as changes come along, incorporating them into our new present the best we can, simply for a better tomorrow? Even if it’s one that we won’t be around to see?

True, she was recycling, but she seemed none too happy about it. She was incorporating the new present into her life, but to me at least, she seemed rather leery as to what would result from it. And why it was even required in the first. But then again – as I was simply passing her by and engaged her not, and as her existence to me took up a mere several seconds-worth of my life – maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe what I truly saw was her, simply and solely staring at the recycling bin, thinking to herself “damn, that mother fucker is almost my height!”

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