it's a dog's life?

note: comments of previous post returned ... also, comments on lullabies ... returned and another choice added to the book cover post there. so, go to the other blog and help me decide which cover i should submit.

EDIT: choice made ~ see below ...



ok ... I've decided on what to submit for that project ...

book cover ~ yeah the third one I made turned out the best ... soooo ... I'm going with it! (I love the colours).




here's a first 'draft' of the fake web site 'prototype' that's part of the project ~ you see the way the words Books by Design look embossed? Well, the final effect of the website will be that sort of embossed effect to each of the menu items on the left when the mouse rolls over the text. I like the simplicity of the page.




OK ... NOW YOU CAN expand the post to read about why I had to file a missing persons report early Wednesday. Just so you know ... everything's okay, but the experience of it all I wanted to share.

I hung up the phone. And stared at the 8 digit number. I had just filed a missing person's report. On my husband. I wanted to cry ... as in gutteral weeping. I wanted to cry out to the universe gimme a fucking break, already! I felt the temptation so strongly, to fall into that smelly pity pit. I resisted the urge. I resisted the urge to use any external device to dilute that sick feeling I had in the pit of my gut. I called the hospitals. No one there by that name. I called his employer and left a message for him there. And then ... I did nothing. Just felt incredible fatigue.

My ego raged. It clamoured for some sort of outlet, something foolish to engage its infernal rage. I must admit, I indulged it. In a small, stupid way. By finding all the cigarettes he had left, stashed around the house, and cutting them up. Not just in half, but, in small pieces that he could not easily patch. And I left the mangled tobacco sticks on his side of the bed. As I studied my handiwork, I giggled, imagining seeing him sitting on the sofa, smoking a patched-up cigarette. I wondered if he would patch these. Or just disembowel the remains and re-roll the tobacco. I told myself that he might not ever return. I decided that, regardless of whether or not he came home, I would refrain from sleeping in the bed. I contemplated all the things that I'd have to do, if indeed this meant he would not return to me. And I mulled over the four reasons he could have for his tardiness: (1) some harm came to him; (2) fucking some other girl; (3) careless and air-headed - just lost track of time; (4) not coming back because he didn't fucking feel like it.

The last time I went downtown to look for him, every dingy pub looked closed for the night. Well past 1 am ... not a time I typically like to lurk about the infamous corner of Hasting and Main. I saw three cop cars in the alley near Carnegie Centre. A scattering of way strung out high junkies floating about the sidewalk, and at times, in the middle of Hastings. I saw no one that resembled my guy. I saw rats, stealing across the sidewalk, and into one of the many board-up businesses that lined Hastings, near Cambie Street. I wondered why other wives don't have these sorts of experiences. I wondered how wives of police officers and soldiers struggle with the possibility that their man may not return home to them. How does one live with that real possibility? No one who has lost a loved one ever expected it, did they?

I tried to tap into my intuitive sense. It kept telling me he would return to me. Each time I returned from looking for him, my heart sank to find his absence from our home. The raging inferno in my ego's core diminished the quiet wisdom of my neutral intuition. I doubted myself. I wanted to feel prepared ... for the worse possibility. When I heard the key turn in the lock, just before 3 am, a deluge of emotion beckoned me. I resisted. I expressed my disappointment. Asked where he went. He apologized, then answered the question ~ sitting in the park smoking crack, I think, not sure if it was that or meth. Do I believe him? What difference does that make? Its the what I have to work with. Do I lecture him on the dangers of that smoking that white shit? How pedantic ~ he knows all that. What difference would it make? None. Besides, details ... mean nothing. They're like that part of the onion we discard, when preparing dinner. Its what drives the details that matters to me. Everything means something.

I fell asleep by around 4 am, I think. I awoke, on the red velvet couch 1 hour and 45 minutes later to wake the truant up to go to work. As he left, about a half-hour later, I told him, come back to me. He smiled, slightly, then left. I spent the morning weighing in my mind the intention behind that gesture of obscene tardiness. Never, had he done that before. It must mean something. I wanted to run ~ escape. I fantasized about going to Winnipeg to see my parents. Just like that ~ going without saying anything. Pointless. Solves nothing. Seems like an example of the behaviour I decided I found unacceptable. I fantasized about changing the locks. Or issuing some dramatic ultimatum. Counter-productive. Bitchy and childish. Solves nothing. I asked myself what would I do, if I possessed the financial capacity to leave. Would I? The temptation would urge me, for sure. But, what of the consequences of indulging spite in a moment of acquiescing to one's raging ego? And ... what of honouring the vow i made, years ago? What of following through with a choice I made?

I thought of something Susan wrote about, in her blog a while back: life is not about my happiness ... and I understood what she felt, in that moment. I can only effect change by managing my response to those things I wish to change. Exerting pressure ... name calling and be-littling ... manipulating ... throwing raging histrionics ~ these all work at counter-purpose. I wondered, is this it? What's the deal breaker for me? Indeed, would my threshold of tolerance decrease if I had the financial means to leave? (I admit I fantasized about indulging myself by getting a fancy hotel room downtown at least for the night ... so as to remain absent upon his return home ... how childish, I know!). Does financial dependence exist for me, to teach me the lesson of humility and tolerance? How do I tolerate the unacceptable? That's what love means, doesn't it? Tolerating the unacceptable? The disagreeble? Perhaps financial independence would afford me distance ~ the sort of distance chickory has with her cabin. Of course, I would opt against a cabin in the mountains, preferring a studio apartment, perhaps. Perhaps distance would bind us? Perhaps ....

Perhaps I just chalk it up to c'est la vie, stick that feather in my cap, and move forward. Awareness means that unceasing tug of war with my ego ... and it prevents me from turning into that pillar of salt ... the one borne from the inertia of holding grudges, desiring revenge, harbouring resentment. We all make mistakes. That we learn from them seems to me, the best means of accepting responsibility for one's behaviour. Escaping never solved anything. In fact, it seems like the quickest way to become a slave to that very thing from which we run.

It's a dog's life ... and I love it! I feel so fortunate to have it. Besides ...