196. Disappointment

Panda Bear looks just like this
and just as mischievous too

Today we are in a lot of pain. Feeling very depressed. Why? For some reason we feel insignificant, invisible and simply an obligation to the world. No, it doesn’t make the most sense but it’s the way we feel. We are also feeling impatient to get on with the new blog, The Outlet, as well as a feeling we are letting people down by not doing much on this blog. We have not finished telling our story yet we have jumped off to do something else. This is a familiar pattern and one we do not feel proud of.

We keep hearing the song by The Cranberries – Disappointment. Yeah, disappointed in us. Now this isn’t altogether logical because last week we were feeling pretty good about us. Speaking of songs, though, how about The Who’s song “The Kids are Alright”. Yeah, the kids Inside are doing alright. They do not feel disappointed. They are doing just fine. Ones like Stoene Boy (6st) and Hartly and Tee-Tee (3) and Little Ruby (4) and Epiphany (4). They are especially alright when we go visit Lance and Graham. Our energy just picks up then. Tee-Tee has come to the conclusion that he likes mega-action movies like Die-Hard, even though it’s centuries old. The last two weekends our visits with Lance have included watching Die-Hard and Die-Hard 2. Yah. The kids are alright.

It’s the rest of us who are hurting. Antsy. Restless. Depressed. Well we know it will change at some point. In the meantime, we’ll put a poem here that somewhat depicts our mood.

The creative emptiness

in our belly of love

grows bigger every day.

Swelling with nothingness

as far as we can tell.

It causes an itch

that we cannot possibly scratch -

Inside.

How long for this gestation period?

One never knows

but ...

 we hate the waiting.

At night we toss and turn

with the ache and discomfort.

Words and images

jumble around in here,

tossing and turning themselves

into salads ...

no dressing.

As time goes on

it presses on our bladder

and we have to go more often

in the night.

But nothing comes out -

still –

not yet.

Our hands make fists,

then open,

then close,

clutching at air

but nothing is there

either.

These hands and fingers

wriggle like legs,

a beetle caught

upside down

on its back,

squirming in frustration

to right itself.

One push from something

is all it needs,

is all we need,

something in front of us,

a lump of clay,

a sheet of paper,

letters on a keyboard.

But not even those

can help these hands.

So they clutch and open

and clutch and open,

waiting ...

till something is here.

This burden of emptiness

is more than we can bear.

This weight of such wanting

leads us to despair.

The dryness of this drought

that hangs in the air.