tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13799103959058018152024-03-16T09:37:15.507-05:00Words from the WenchThe only thing predictable about this blog is that you never know what you're going to get.Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-90972541104967130082023-10-22T18:16:00.002-05:002023-10-23T07:19:50.705-05:00A dream: In the Waking Hours I Know My Name is Nessa<p> My name is gone from my mind. I had it before I came here, but now that I need it, it seems to have fallen away -- like a dead leaf from a hibernating tree. 'Tis the season of forgetfulness.</p><p>Forgetful-ness. Forgetful Ness. There's something so familiar about that, but I can't recall what it should be.</p><p>I'm staring at this stranger who's staring right back at me, expectantly. I mumble something, but even I do not understand what I mean to say. She cocks her head, raises an eyebrow, and leans in as if the inches between us are causing the confusion. </p><p>The cold wind blows. More memories fall away. I can almost see them, just for a few seconds, flitting away, tumbling across my timeline, dissipating into the emptiness. Flames flickering into ash.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Well, at least that word is clear in my head. I haven't forgotten language altogether. I try to say it to my curious reflection, but she, too, has evaporated. </p><p>This is worrisome. I lift my hands and stare at my fingers. They seem resolute. I wiggle them. I feel them. I am not fading away like everything else around here. I am solid and strong and loud and bold.</p><p>The freezing gusts slice into me like blades of ice. I stand against it. I turn to face it, and even though it takes all my strength to find my voice and bring it into my throat, I howl my name into the mighty darkness. </p><p>The sound brings light and the light brings color and the color ripples through the memories, through the leaves of my life, printing words on every page and singing every song. </p><p>I inhale light. I exhale warmth.</p><p>I know who I am now. I am Olivia, Forgetter of Names.</p>Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-71744459794420495502023-10-01T20:41:00.001-05:002023-10-01T20:41:41.731-05:00There's still some beach in my car.<p>There's absolutely nobody to hold me accountable to this, but I've got a list of 50 things I'd like to do the year I turn 50. And even if there <i>were </i>somebody to mark the list, it's not like they can take turning fifty away from me, because I already did it back in July. (Though I suppose they could keep me from turning fifty-one if they were a real stickler about it. I guess I better think about that.)</p><p>I've been accomplishing things. </p><p>For instance, I went to Vegas. I had never done that before. I played some slots, but my friend who went with me made me stop, so now I've still got $70 of "slots money." Maybe I'll drive up to Guymon next weekend and get rid of it. I won't take the same friend. I'll take somebody who doesn't give a shit how much money I lose.</p><p>Went kayaking and later went to the ocean, and just after that went floating down the San Marcos River on a tube. I think I might only be happy on the water. Let me win the lotto and buy myself a houseboat.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CFabdwfM0_aPqwGyLdLymODa-bH5fx3NozX-iV5Am0ZiS4eSYeenLpZJScgCW58Jm0bzSXqDjZ_zJVIziHKIjS5l5jlhoKDMrOIuSC6k9muzlSwd3v8ei7LbFS9r9Mh5MzNTHv0mkiilCPV5DHrDluP3eKChW_yLfMDXvKIYysDqBU7Gdal7il1VvCmp/s2880/20230725_132352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2880" data-original-width="2880" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CFabdwfM0_aPqwGyLdLymODa-bH5fx3NozX-iV5Am0ZiS4eSYeenLpZJScgCW58Jm0bzSXqDjZ_zJVIziHKIjS5l5jlhoKDMrOIuSC6k9muzlSwd3v8ei7LbFS9r9Mh5MzNTHv0mkiilCPV5DHrDluP3eKChW_yLfMDXvKIYysDqBU7Gdal7il1VvCmp/w456-h456/20230725_132352.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Escaped an escape room on the USS Lexington, the one based on missing ghost hunters. Lights flickered, ghosts howled, voices whispered, and I screamed.</p><p>I forgot to say I got flashed in Vegas when we were walking The Strip, but that wasn't on my list of things to do, it was just a surprising bonus. We went to MeowWolf while we were there, Omega Mart. I like the one in Santa Fe a bit more. We went to a burlesque show and sat next to a grumpy old man and his joyful wife. We barely drank. </p><p>I got a pet, a black molly who promptly got sucked up into the water filter, so I replace it with another black molly, and then another, and then one more. That final one lasted a bit longer than the first three, but two weeks into it, I packed up the entire aquarium and went back to being a no-pets household. Anything more than four would have been idiotic and cruel. </p><p>I entered a writing contest - short story, but I didn't win. Now that I recall, it was flash fiction that I wrote in less than a day, so no hard feelings. Typically, I'll sit on a story for a while, nurturing it until I think it's ready for the world. This story never stood a chance. It might as well have been a black molly.</p><p>I've eaten at more than 50 separate restaurants with more than 50 unique people. </p><p>I've created 50 pieces of art, but I haven't written 50 poems yet. I've almost done fifty little projects around the house. I've definitely read 50 books. </p><p>I created a playlist and listened to my favorite songs from each of the 50 years of my life. </p><p>I tipped $50 to a server and donated $50 to a good cause. </p><p>The list goes on, and I've been having a wonderful year.</p><p>I've got all of October, November, and December to tackle whatever's left.</p><p>November I'm going to deep dive into NaNoWriMo. I've only ever committed to it once before, but working crazy hours in the stores held me back from being able to dedicate as much time as I'd like to the cause. And even when I did transition to a desk, the fucking pandemic had me tied to it. This year, I don't have any excuses. </p><p>50,000 words in 30 days. What's the math on that? (Doesn't matter. Ima do it, no matter what.)</p>Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-32116080364980644772023-07-31T20:28:00.001-05:002023-07-31T23:22:26.500-05:00I Really Need to Cut Down on my Caffeine<p>I've been staring at this screen for over two hours telling me it's updating all the things. 18%. This may take a while, it says. </p><p>It's my old college laptop. </p><p>I really got my money out of it, but it was old and slow and clunky and grumpy, so I put it out to pasture and bought a shiny new thing about three years ago. Which was four years after I graduated college, so I guess that puts us at an eight year old laptop, which amounts to about 96 in laptop years, so it was an impressively lengthy life. Good old chap.</p><p>And I got along fine with the shiny new thing right up until last Thursday when my morning coffee decided to make itself cozy with the shiny new thing, which was by this time, let's just admit it, no longer shiny and not quite new. </p><p>The not really new laptop, of course, had strong objections to becoming cozy with the coffee, and to properly demonstrate its grief, it up and died without any other comment. </p><p>So it's back to the old college laptop.</p><p>The clunky, grumpy, not at all shiny or new laptop.</p><p>The laptop that worked for four jolly days, but has now decided it's much too old and much too grumpy to be subjected to this kid of elderly abuse so far into retirement. </p><p>If it were human, it'd probably hit me with its cane. </p><p>If I were inhuman, I'd show it what I did to the shiny new laptop that now sits in pieces at the bottom of the trash bin, bleeding coffee. </p><p>22% Don't turn off your PC. This will take a while.</p><p><br /></p>Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-64663584550806826942023-05-31T21:20:00.002-05:002023-06-22T20:47:02.426-05:00Couple Times a Week<p><br /></p><p>The thing about meetings is...it's considered bad manners to dig a hole and disappear into it, dig all the way to the other side of the earth, start a new life where nobody knows you, abandon all social media, live forever in obscurity. </p><p>Especially right in the middle of your presentation. </p><p><br /></p>Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-57920718772486487842021-02-16T20:53:00.008-06:002021-02-19T18:52:43.102-06:00Pillow Snow<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The snow comes across the sky</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">like feathers from a pillow-</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">one that perhaps you have smashed</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">with reckless joy</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">against your best friend's head.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The flakes, too, are reckless.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">They see me through my window.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">They flock against the glass </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">to get a better look at me.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">They show me their six identical
corners.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I show them my two unique eyes. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">by nessa locke 2021</span></p><br /><p></p>Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-1165475920382774162020-10-14T20:10:00.000-05:002020-10-14T20:10:38.842-05:00See Me Home<p> In those moments just after twilight</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A Summer’s day in the middle of Fall<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Three lanky silhouettes on a basketball court<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the elementary school.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One poofy head<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One smooth head<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One ball cap<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One headlight<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then one head light<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then more headlights in an endless growl<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A guttural vibration<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A motorcycle roar <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am the shark that splits them <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Porch light<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Snow cat<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Pumpkin cat<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Moon cat<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You know the kind<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With moons for eyes against midnight black fur<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Staring at me from the shadow <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just after twilight in the middle of Fall<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">by nessa locke 2020</p>Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-25966025005842896082020-05-28T08:35:00.002-05:002020-09-21T09:57:57.072-05:00(self destruction)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have long held the opinion that I am ruled by six primary counter-intuitive desires.<br />
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I want to save the world.<br />
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I want to destroy the world.<br />
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I want to conquer the world.<br />
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I want to be consumed by the world.<br />
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I want to be included in the world.<br />
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I want to abandon the world.<br />
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These seem like conflicting and lonely fantasies. Though I may often be conflicted, I am not lonely.<br />
And I realize at any given point in time, I could remove "the world" and replace it with something a bit less lonely.<br />
Practically anything else as unattainable as the world.<br />
<br />
love<br />
money<br />
time<br />
literature<br />
happiness<br />
alaska<br />
myself<br />
or<br />
you</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-42744282652977021262020-03-30T21:45:00.000-05:002020-03-30T21:45:43.015-05:00Scrap Poetry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I demolished a book today. </div>
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Like a regular sadist.</div>
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I did it to get the boy interested in poetry. </div>
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We spoke of mechanics and theme and tone. </div>
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We looked for power words and mood and proper grammatical structure. </div>
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We pieced words and phrases together from the scraps of an old paperback my friend had given to me. (She didn't like it you see, but I might, if I gave it a try. And I tried.)</div>
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The boy and I clipped and snipped and rearranged the bits.</div>
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We stuck them onto new backgrounds and committed them to their new order with Elmer's. </div>
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We didn't unwrite the pages. We obliterated the pages.</div>
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And now the words belong to us.</div>
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Savages, we.</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G6ZIz-MAY_M/XoKrZ_xCn9I/AAAAAAAAB1A/m1Qj3TDoqB4WUkYn73EBZODhn7ChfWpeACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/lyrics%2Bscrap%2Bpoem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G6ZIz-MAY_M/XoKrZ_xCn9I/AAAAAAAAB1A/m1Qj3TDoqB4WUkYn73EBZODhn7ChfWpeACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/lyrics%2Bscrap%2Bpoem.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My scrap poem:</div>
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There was a strange note in his voice</div>
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words of wisdom</div>
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in a grating voice</div>
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in a voice so choked with fury it was scarcely </div>
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recognizable</div>
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So I rolled my eyes up as far as they would go and</div>
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pressed the spoon to your lips</div>
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You were like a little bird swallowing obediently</div>
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but never opening your ensuing discussion</div>
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long thoughtful silence</div>
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to stir the strongest sensations, and</div>
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When I awoke, I was surrounded</div>
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Everyone began shouting at once</div>
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One of the soldiers must be a traitor.</div>
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Lyric's scrap poem:</div>
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His first words of the king</div>
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he inspected the ancient rarest of gems at 6</div>
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The point where the Bowmen of Cush ghost was willing to take Emerson's word</div>
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His poor wife had reminded of this time alone while it struck</div>
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Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-11483656871449472962020-03-29T09:38:00.000-05:002020-03-29T09:38:12.130-05:00I Feel Fine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is a single fly darting around my house landing in peculiar places: the ivy, the entryway rug, the photo wall.<br />
<br />
As I was stalking it, swatter in hand, trying find the perfect moment to strike, I swear I heard my dead mother whisper in my ear, "If a fly can get in here undetected, COVID-19 won't have any problem slipping in."<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZrQu06SJJk0/XoCwcSrxUVI/AAAAAAAABzg/F0n9Bhj0q4oTDHj9WveVWUnZvOU_w0S-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/covid%2Bfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1080" height="222" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZrQu06SJJk0/XoCwcSrxUVI/AAAAAAAABzg/F0n9Bhj0q4oTDHj9WveVWUnZvOU_w0S-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/covid%2Bfly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I guess they don't have the six feet rule on the astral plane.</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-12924401704750407732018-01-24T13:59:00.000-06:002018-01-24T13:59:53.619-06:00I Wasn't There for the Ambience<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
An old boss of mine once told me that a girl like me ought to be happy just to have a job--a girl with four kids, no husband, and no degree. He listed those things specifically.<br />
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I was asking him for a raise, and I deserved one. I did not get one.<br />
<br />
This is the same boss who, when another female coworker of mine decided she wanted to be a firefighter, accused her of "trying to be a man" because she "wanted a man's job."<br />
<br />
Great guy, that old boss of mine.<br />
<br />
Since that time, I have attended University full-time while working full-time, graduated <i>Summa Cum Laude </i>with a 4.0 GPA, moved into a different department at work, got a few promotions, and now spend quite a bit of time giving high fives to all my team members, male and female alike.<br />
<br />
I bought a house, took a trip to London, got published a few times, survived my first car wreck, found new hobbies, revisited old hobbies, volunteered, made tons of friends outside my normal circle, and pretty much had the best time of my life focusing on my own growth.<br />
<br />
All of this I did without the critical financial, moral, or emotional support of a husband.<br />
<br />
Go figure.<br />
<br />
Going through it all, I supposed it was easier to NOT have a man than it was to have one. I had more freedom to NOT do regular chores around the house. I wasn't expected to keep the house clean or do grocery shopping or any of the stupid things women complain about "having" to do all the time.<br />
<br />
Eff that.<br />
<br />
Pretty quick after I graduated, "Arturo" swooped in and scooped me up. It was a bold move. I had turned down a few men already, and I had planned to continue being single, seeing that it was working so well for me up until that point.<br />
<br />
The funny thing about Arturo is he's a real man's man. He shows up for life, works hard for his paycheck, has muscles and stamina, works on cars, likes his privacy. Not the kind of guy I thought I'd ever be attracted to again. I was imagining I'd find a nerd like me with a couple of degrees and a passion for philosophy and art.<br />
<br />
When he asked me out he said, "You wanna get together for coffee and talk about Shakespeare?"<br />
<br />
Ummm...okay.<br />
<br />
We've been together for over a year now, and I have no idea where we go from here. The only thing I know is that I don't<i> need </i>him. I am perfectly fine on my own. And that simple fact adds value to our relationship. I don't need him around; I want him around.<br />
<br />
And that's the kind of girl I want to be. A girl like me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-10933631388654541742018-01-19T08:04:00.000-06:002018-01-19T10:07:19.271-06:00Maybe It Was Allegory<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="aslac" data-offset-key="7i7u3-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7i7u3-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">
<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last night I dreamed of a goldfish who lived in a glass bowl in the middle of a swimming pool. He kept jumping out of his confined bowl into the "freedom" of the pool. I spent all my time catching him barehanded and putting him back in his bowl.
Each time the little fish jumped into the pool, he grew a little bigger. Naturally, this made it easier for me to spot him and catch him, but eventually, he became too big to fit back into the bowl.
I sat on the edge of the pool with the little glass bowl in my hand and watched him as he became much too large to swim freely in the pool. He jumped out and told me he was going to find the ocean.
By this time, he had grown so large, he was bigger than me, maybe twice as big, and I could no longer scoop him into my protective hands and put him back into the safety of his bowl or the pool. I couldn't even drag him into the ocean.
A sadness grew in me for the loss of my little fish, because I knew he would not make it on his own, and I was useless to help him.
I woke up wondering how to find the ocean and bring it to my little fish, and only when I was awake did I realize I could have dreamed it into happening. I could have dreamed of a secret passageway out of the pool directly into the ocean, but I forgot I was in a fantasy world. I forgot I was in control.
That is the way of dreams. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-15164540529451424972017-06-18T22:58:00.000-05:002017-06-18T22:58:01.554-05:00Fiction: Anxiety on a Different Level<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> I’m twelve feet
off the ground looking down on the flowerbed that used to have petunias or
daisies or something prettier than dirt and rocks. I imagine myself tumbling
over and striking my head on one of the half-buried bricks that keep the
barren dirt safely separated from the weedy forest that is my lawn. Or maybe
I’ll slip and impale myself on the sharp pickets of the privacy fence. How much
blood would I lose before somebody hears me screaming? What happens if I get
knocked out and can’t scream? I try to remember if I’ve ever been given advice
about plummeting safely. I’m sure I know nothing about falling, so I vow to
myself not to take it up until I’m better educated. So I sit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">Happily,
if the Zombie Apocalypse happens today, I’ve got a pretty safe seat. Everybody
knows zombies can’t climb ladders. I wonder how long a zombie can last without
a meal. I wonder how long I can last without a meal. Or a beer. It’s getting
pretty hot up here. I run my hand through my hair and think I’ll marry the man
who brings me an ice cold beer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">Though I am certain I am holding still, my vision swirls and the ground seems to pull at my core. This must be vertigo. Who would even want to marry a girl who
doesn’t have the <u>cajones</u> to climb down a ladder?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">“Jackie,
are you okay up there?” My neighbor calls up to me. I can see his balding head
over the fence. He’s shading his eyes from the sun as he looks up at me in that
serious way that makes me think he’s thinking he needs to call someone with authority, perhaps someone with negotiation skills. I know he probably
should send somebody to shoot me with a tranquilizer and let me roll off
unconscious onto a nice, safe tarp. There would be far less drama than trying
to convince me to get back on the ladder. Nevertheless, my neighbor wants to
get on with his day. I know this. I know he doesn’t want to be bothered,
because I wouldn’t want to be bothered by him. I mostly want people to take
care of themselves, and so he probably feels the same. I refuse to obligate him
to my issues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “I’m good,” I assure him. “Just
writing some existential poetry.” He doesn’t waste any time and believes me
right away. He disappears into his garage, and a few minutes later, his blue
sedan drives away. He stops at the sign and turns right just as my boyfriend
Elijah is turning onto the street. They wave to each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> It must be five-thirty. Elijah
always comes home at five-thirty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> I am silent and still. I feel like a
teenager who’s been caught sneaking out. What will he think when he realizes
I’m stuck up here, and that I’m not coming down without a lot of crying? Maybe
he’ll think I’m not home, and he’ll leave to go pick up dinner, and then I’ll
teach myself to fly while he’s gone. He’ll never know about this paralyzing
fear that has my hiney stuck to these shingles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> It seems like an hour goes by before
I hear his footsteps behind me. I don’t turn around because I am afraid to look
him in the eye. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “I got this for you.” He presses a
cold, glass bottle against my bare neck. I flinch, but take it with a smile. He
settles himself beside me, and we gaze at the neighborhood as we sip on our
beers. A few minutes pass before he asks me, “Why are we up here, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “There was a kid with a helicopter,”
I say, as if the explains it all, and Elijah nods, because that’s enough for
him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “Did you think about that question I
asked you earlier?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “Yep.” I nod, and sip my beer. I let
it cool my throat before I continue. It was that beer that sealed the
deal. “I think it’ll be okay.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “That‘s not a real answer,” he tells
me and nudges me with his elbow. The force of his nudge knocks me over a
little, and my fear kicks in. I clutch onto his arm and scoot away from the
edge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “Fine then, I’ll marry you!” I shout
it like I’m already falling and this is the last thing I’ll ever say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “Fine then, I’ll marry you too.” He
reaches into his left pocket with one finger and digs out a little diamond
ring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “You just carry one of those around
all the time?” I asked him, trying to diffuse my anxiety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “I might.” He peels my hand off his
arm, picks a finger and slips the little band around it. “It’s a good thing you
said yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> “Oh? Why is that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> He takes a long draw from his beer
before answering. “Because I am scared of that rickety old ladder you’ve got
propped against the house. We’re just going to have to live up here forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-1593922720364356502017-03-01T12:08:00.000-06:002017-03-01T12:08:53.823-06:00Strange Traffic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This isn't my toilet paper.<br />
<br />
Neither is this my iron or my pillow or my coffee or my time zone. Nothing here seems to align with my daily expectations, and it's kind of driving me slowly toward insanity.<br />
<br />
I need my creature comforts to feel like a comfortable creature, y'all.<br />
<br />
Still, my would-be roommate actually has family in this city and a new grandbaby, so she's staying with them, and I've got all this strange hospitality to myself. I have flung my things all over, and I have canceled housecleaning services for the duration. (Except, for some reason, they have to come in on the fifth day, no matter what.Odd.) I have walked around with nothing but a towel, and nobody has been the wiser.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I pulled up and allowed some friendly young man to commandeer my vehicle, leaving me with nothing but a square of paper to reclaim it. I stood there with my luggage and stared into the fog and snow and wondered if there maybe was a mistake about my being here. The powerful, domineering swell of self-doubt began to creep into every pore. I don't belong here. There must be a mistake. Am I educated enough? Do I know enough about our company's culture? Will anybody recognize me as any kind of authority in my field while I'm here? How many hostiles? How many friendlies?<br />
<br />
Why am I thinking about this in terms of war?<br />
<br />
But...I can do all this. And even more than this. This is no big deal.<br />
<br />
And the little things don't matter. In a couple of weeks the strange traffic and the weird night noises and the somewhat familiar faces of the folks who work in our company will soon become routine, and I won't think a thing of it.<br />
<br />
And then it will be time to go home.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-48872058707512638152017-02-23T20:31:00.000-06:002017-02-23T21:13:19.444-06:00That One Time We Fled for Our Lives.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday was National Margarita Day.<br />
<br />
I did not partake. But if I were inclined to celebrate things in that way, I might have had a couple because yesterday was also the twentieth anniversary of the day I escaped THAT MAN.<br />
<br />
I remember it well. I had waited three months for the perfect moment, and when it finally came along, I took it.<br />
<br />
I had four babies, two diaper bags, and a tank full of gas.<br />
<br />
We've come a long way.<br />
<br />
So cheers to us.<br />
<br /></div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-39270045178471826132017-02-06T19:14:00.001-06:002017-02-06T19:14:37.568-06:00Good Lord, I'm a Goner<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Don't tell him I told you this, but... he snores.<br />
<br />
He says I snore, too, but we all know girls don't actually do that sort of thing. It's right up there with belching and passing gas on the list of Things It's Biologically Impossible for Girls to Do. So when he says I snore, you know darn well he's just being silly.<br />
<br />
But he definitely snores.<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, it doesn't bother me at all. It's part of the noises of the night. It's rhythmic and somewhat soothing, and it makes me feel cozier and warmer to know he's <i>right there</i>. (Most nights, he's not there, so I soak up what time we have together.)<br />
<br />
And when he's not there, the silence makes me nervous and restless. I've grown so comfortable with him, it's as if he <i>supposed</i> to be there, as if he's <i>always</i> been there. His absence feels like the anomaly. The night is off kilter without him. I get fidgety, and I have to wait for the lullaby of the passing night trains to soothe me to sleep. It's something to drown out the silence when he's gone.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-83820925020740044732017-01-25T11:03:00.000-06:002017-02-06T22:00:38.114-06:00Lifestyle Choices<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I had
hostile neighbors last year, which is almost an unbelievable fact, because they
also had an incessant practice of filling up the entire duplex with marijuana
smoke. I often thought to myself, how much more hostile might they be if they hadn’t
embraced that particular habit? Isn’t it supposed to calm a person down? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Personally, I don’t care what they smoke, but I am
allergic to marijuana, so I became rather aggravated by the constant two a.m.
struggle to rid my side of the duplex of the thick cloud that would waft
through whatever duct system existed there. They <i>couldn’t</i> have known that I was in danger of actually dying from
their lifestyle choices, but I often translated it to a personal assault on <i>my</i> lifestyle choice—specifically the
lifestyle choice I had made to continue being alive as long as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I never
approached them about my problem. They had already reacted badly when I asked
them to move their vehicles away from my garage, and one time, the postal
carrier put their mail in my box by accident. When I tried to knock on their
door to give it to them, they threatened to have me kicked out for trespassing.
This was their mindset, so I never spoke to them about my very real issue with
their pot-smoking habits, even though it is still illegal in Texas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Instead,
I bought a little house very far away from them. It’s adorable. Or, if you want
to use the words my real estate agent used, it’s “totes adorbs.” Two bedrooms,
one bath, washer dryer hook-ups, garage, fenced yard, nice neighbors. I like
it. I low-balled my offer, and the owner accepted it, no negotiation at all, on
my birthday in July. I moved in on August twelfth, and the plumbing started
acting up ten days later. No worries, though. My super smart real estate agent
signed me up with a home warranty, and all my plumbing issues are slowing being
resolved. It’s an old house. It’s going to take time. The washer is draining
and backing up into the bathtub as I type this, but there’s not a pot cloud in
sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The funny thing is, during the time it took to get all
the paperwork and inspections done so I could get away from the old neighbors,
they up and moved away from me. They took their five cars, their four dogs,
their two teenaged boys, and all their pot with them. They didn’t even say
goodbye. Go figure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The landlord grumbled a little about the mess they left
behind, but he was happy for me when he heard I was buying a house. I left my
side of the duplex nice and clean and got my entire deposit back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "century" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I’m a good
neighbor like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-3169864652494333692017-01-09T20:21:00.000-06:002017-02-06T21:59:26.875-06:00All these nice things are MINE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is awkward.<br />
<br />
I graduated three weeks ago, and I haven't paid any attention to all the things I swore I would pay attention to as soon as I graduated. My house is still messy. My car still has bird poop all over the passenger side door handle. My manuscripts remain unwritten.<br />
<br />
Lazy...<br />
<br />
But, you know, it's been nice. I know what my kids look like <i>in person</i> instead of just seeing them on Facebook. I got to help my little grandson Damon create some refrigerator handprint art. I went on a few dates with a sexy Irish guy who opens doors for me and makes me laugh. I went shopping.<br />
<br />
2016 was my year, you know. I realize it pretty much sucked for so many people on the planet, and I'm afraid I made off with the one little bucket of great things 2016 had to offer. I know this, but I'm still holding on to all my great stuff. In fact, I'm practically flaunting it. Wearing it like people wear Michael Kors, and bragging about it just as much.<br />
<br />
"Look at my beautiful trip to London, and my new gray house with the red door, and my four point oh. Aren't they <i>to die</i> for?"<br />
<br />
yep. It's been a great year.<br />
<br />
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Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-27128024401659100972016-09-04T21:19:00.002-05:002017-02-06T21:58:34.257-06:00Stand to the right, please.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I just remembered I have lots of reading to do before I get back to school on Wednesday. So naturally, I've decided to completely ignore that to-do pile and catch up on some blog-posting.<br />
<br />
Lots has happened since I was here last, yet nothing has happened at all. There's the rub.<br />
<br />
I don't remember if I mentioned I went to London last May. That was a riot. I've got loads of pictures, and some of them are amazing. Most of them are only interesting to me.<br />
Here's a few:<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I'm a Tube expert now. It took about two days for that to happen. I started getting grumpy like the locals, but expressing it in the most polite terms possible. The British are all about manners.<br />
<br />
Before all that happened, I had my very first ever bona fide car wreck. It wasn't my fault and nobody was hurt, but it was scary and surreal, nonetheless.<br />
<br />
I'll tell you about it sometime.<br />
<br /></div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-22798843624926105192016-02-25T08:08:00.000-06:002016-02-25T08:08:31.377-06:00bulletpoints<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
These are the bullet points:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>The kids have been out of the house for a significant amount of time--long enough that I actually miss them.</li>
<li>I am still in school, still rockin' the four point oh. This has a lot to do with my absence on this blog.</li>
<li>I got a nice promotion at my job.</li>
<li>I also got a humble pay increase.</li>
<li>I had a dream about that guy I like.</li>
<li>It was a very nice dream.</li>
<li>I don't have nice dreams. This must be a sign.</li>
<li>I'm going to London in May for two weeks.</li>
<li>Dr. Doty, who is leading our London trip, is not going to come back to WTAMU in the Fall.</li>
<li>Dr. Doty got a better job.</li>
<li>Dr. Doty got a better pay increase than mine.</li>
<li>Dr. Doty deserves it. He's pretty brilliant, and could probably get a job anywhere he wants.</li>
<li>I noticed I lost about six followers.</li>
<li>It kind of hurts my feelings that people actually chose to give up on me.</li>
<li>I'll be back soon.</li>
</ul>
</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-32104906816675541662015-08-26T09:59:00.000-05:002015-08-26T10:00:44.622-05:00The Five...or Maybe Six Stages of Grief<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I resisted my friend's rude intrusion last night while I snoozed in my bed. He kept shaking me and telling me the toilet was overflowing and the bathroom was flooding, but I only wanted to snuggle deeper into my pillow and pretend the world could get along fine without me. I don't ordinarily get the kind of sleep where I don't know I'm sleeping, and I had been thinking to myself that this sleep was that kind of sleep. I wasn't aware of my dreams all night, so my brain was finally achieving a level of rest I had been seeking for my entire life. These nights are the best nights. But my rude bed buddy persisted in waking me and insisted I take control of the increasing horror going on in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. Three or four degrees decorate his wall. People far less educated than him have been able to figure out the overflowing toilet problem for generations. What is his freakin' problem? For that matter, what's my freakin' problem? How am I always ending up with the kinds of guys who can't or WON'T take the initiative to fix the problem (whatever the problem may be) when the problem arises? Why do I have to be the one to give up all the excellent sleep? Why do I have to do everything myself?<br />
<br />
I would have given him my third-born child if he would have just taken care of it and let me roll over and get a couple more hours of sleep. I'm tired, bitches.<br />
<br />
But...he was right. It's my bathroom, my responsibility. It's my toilet. I'm the one who knows where I hide the plunger. I understood at that point he would never be able to find it slightly to the right of the toilet tank. I groaned as I rolled away from him to my side of the bed.<br />
<br />
I sat on the edge for a few seconds. Through bleary eyes, I stared at the clock and tried to calculate how much time I had been asleep and if it was going to be enough to get me through my day, because I still have to do homework for five classes, and hang out at my job for eight hours or so. If this toilet situation didn't abate, I might have to deal with a plumber on top of everything else.<br />
<br />
Whatever. I'm Supergirl. I can handle it.<br />
<br />
The bathroom is about fifteen feet away from my bed, and in the time it took for me to drag my tired body over there I had prepared myself for the worst case scenario. The sights and sounds, and OH MY GOD, the smells of what I was about to face...<br />
<br />
But you know what?<br />
<br />
There was nothing there. Just a nice, clean, orderly bathroom. The mats on the tile floor remained fluffy and un-disgusting. The pristine blue water rested in the white porcelain bowl without a hint of overflow. Nothing needed my special attention.<br />
<br />
I looked twice, just to be sure, and maybe again, because why would my friend tell me there was a situation when there was obviously no situation? Was he dreaming?<br />
<br />
I decided he must have been dreaming, so I returned to the bed to shake him awake and let him know that the toilet was not overflowing. The horror was not increasing. We could all go back to bed and get some well-deserved sleep.<br />
<br />
And then it hit me.<br />
<br />
<i>He</i> was not there. He was <i>never</i> there. I live by myself. I don't <i>ever </i>have a bed buddy. That guy doesn't even know where I live. We don't hang out. The last thing he said to me was he'd see me this summer and, I <i>haven't </i>seen him all summer. He would never be cozy enough with me to be shaking me out of my dreams.<br />
<br />
Ain't that a bitch? I can't even dream the good dreams when he finally shows up in them. I can only dream the dreams that have me wishing for a better dream.<br />
<br />
Or at least for a couple more hours of sleep.<br />
<br />
</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-79663881873681940812015-06-19T21:49:00.000-05:002015-06-20T08:08:47.107-05:00And it hurts anyway.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A friend of mine lost a child.<br />
<br />
It seems so common these days to hear of this kind of loss, and yet it still stands in the corner of my life, like a shadow in the periphery, the hint of something that does not happen in my vicinity. It's still something that only happens to other people, over there, on the outskirts of anything that directly affects me.<br />
<br />
And we all try to be "good friends" when it happens. We "can't imagine the horror." We'll "pray for the family." We hug and we send plants and flowers and donations to cover the expenses because it's "the worst, simply the worst thing that could happen," right? We love our friends. We want them to know that we care.<br />
<br />
And all the while, we really <i>couldn't</i> imagine the horror.<br />
<br />
But because we're not heartless people, <i>we try. </i>We think about our kids, and we wonder how it would feel if this had happened to one of ours. How could we live through that phone call? How could we look our friends in the eye who are only trying to be comforting, and all the while knowing that they are sad for us, yes, but also relieved that it's not happening to them?<br />
<br />
How would we not grow bitter and hateful and angry at everyone, including God, who doesn't really exist, because a benevolent God would never allow an innocent child to die? A benevolent God would never allow a mother to have her heart ripped right from her chest to be stomped on, to be left to rot.<br />
<br />
How could we even get through one more day?<br />
<br />
And I imagine the anger boiling inside me when I think of any of my children being torn from this world by any means at all. There are so many ways it could happen, and life is so fragile. I want to gather them up into a soft, pillowy cocoon so they'll never be hurt in any way. They'll be safe from torture, from fear, from pain, right?<br />
<br />
But what if that's not even enough? What if what kills them comes from within? How do I protect them then? What kind of deals can I make? Who do I see about making a trade?<br />
<br />
And it really doesn't matter, all this imaginary anger I feel when I think about all the things that <i>could</i> happen, but <i>haven't</i> happened.<br />
<br />
Because I really can't imagine the horror of losing a child. Because the real horror of it will last forever, and my imagination is only good for about five minutes before I give up on thinking about that kind of Hell, because it's just too painful.<br />
<br />
It's just too painful.</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-2892156291567193682015-06-15T19:30:00.000-05:002015-06-15T19:39:38.085-05:00Ma'am, Please Step Away from the Banana<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't look at me. I'm hideous.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously, I am.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Right now my arms and legs are covered with hives due to an allergic reaction to who-the-hell-knows-what. It started two nights ago after eating a very ripe, very delicious banana sent by the gods of all things ambrosial. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In my mind, this gluttony is the cause of my demise. I have been allergic to bananas for a few years now. I was under the impression the allergy had dissipated, so I started eating them again, half a banana at a time, building up for the whole thing, you know? I did this four times, and I haven't had any reactions--no wheezing, no up-chucking. I was essentially in the clear, right? So when Saturday night rolled around, I was feeling a party coming on, and I went for the whole banana. <i><span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">(Should I insert dirty joke here? Nah. Better not. This isn't exactly a "family blog," but ya never know who's reading.)</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day at work I was popping Benadryl tablets from a Pez dispenser, </span>unapologetically<span style="font-family: inherit;"> offering them to my co-workers who have not had the pleasure of cavorting with "Loopy Drug-Induced Nessa." It got me through my day, but the hives remained.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the forty-fourth hour of my misery. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the words of Warren Zevon, “Poor, poor, pitiful me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m using this hideousness as an excuse to stay indoors, out of the public eye, but we all know, I don’t really need a reason to do that. It’s well with my soul to remain invisible. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hydrocortisone baths and shots of Benadryl are powerless against this raging rash, so I trotted down to Urgent Care and got signed up for some steroids. They make me twitchy like a drug addict who just needs a fix.<i> (sniffsniff.)</i> “Hey, uh,”<i> (wipes nose) </i>“You got any more a dat, uh…banana puddin’?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Funny thing is, Doc says it’s not a food reaction. This reaction comes from something topical, something I probably used in the shower. I have to go back through my day and try to remember if I changed anything about my hygiene habits. All I can think is that Jacob (kiddo #3) schmoozed his way back into the house a few days ago and probably poisoned my body wash with his boy germs. Rotten child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe I’m just allergic to Jacob </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">or motherhood </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">or roommates of any nature.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe this is why I’m still single.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(Or maybe it's the invisibility.)</div>
</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-35721597428519751492015-05-21T10:27:00.000-05:002015-05-21T12:46:29.567-05:00DREAM: We Let the Damned Thing In<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We’d thought the floods were bad, but they were just the beginning. We traipsed through the mud for days, pulling out random objects as we came upon them. The mud pulled back, and, depending who was stronger, or perhaps who wanted it more, our precious belongings were released with a loud sucking smack, back into our possession. We gathered, and we thought about rebuilding, but…<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> Who’s in charge here?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> I am.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> Is there anyone better?</i><br />
<br />
That rubs me the wrong way. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of accomplishing. What’s the point of asking for somebody <i>better</i>? To insult me? To doubt me? To anger me?<br />
<br />
<i> I’m all you got.</i><br />
<br />
I would have shrugged and left it at that if not for the scene behind his silhouette. Four black spires twisting on the horizon, connecting cloud to earth.<br />
<br />
Into the house we race. The big ones are carrying the little ones when they trip and fall. Some are shouting, some are crying, and all are hoping the wickedness lifts itself up and passes us by without a glance. Of course, none of us believes that will happen. We know all too well we are not immune to tragedy. So into the house we go, and as far down as we can get to escape the curling, creeping fingers of destruction.<br />
<br />
Destruction comes in many forms, though, and he stands silently in the corner while we pray for safety. He lurks in the darkness of a dank and dirty basement and leers at the unsuspecting children, counting potential corpses.</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-85743678149873342162015-04-15T19:47:00.000-05:002015-04-15T19:47:42.715-05:00My Life Right Now in Forty Words or Less<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I need a new desk, but we all know I don't have time to shop. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't even have time to write a new blog post.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(So please don't mention this to my professors.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Everything in the fridge is moldy.</div>
</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1379910395905801815.post-23711285494970816322015-03-04T19:03:00.000-06:002015-03-04T22:58:01.529-06:00Dream: The plumbing never works in those old houses.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
That old, condemned house again.<br />
<br />
I don't like the looks of the left leg, so I think I'll trim it down a little.<br />
<br />
It's easy, see, just a little pressure right there, and a slice.<br />
The problem there is that it's lopsided now, so I'll take a little from the right leg.<br />
<br />
Hold these bones, sister, while I try to get this just perfect.<br />
<br />
I'll have to do this side right-handed. The left hand won't reach around.<br />
<br />
Dammit.<br />
<br />
Guess I'll just have to do away with both legs below the knee, for balance. And a little off each thigh. The thighs have always been too thick.<br />
<br />
I have no idea who clogged the bath tub.</div>
Nessa Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10793613496258240147noreply@blogger.com4