World Without End. Amen.

I am the control. I am the variable.
I am a silly blubbering stone, and then I am not.
I change, change, change like the weather, my experiments go awry, yet I laugh and wear my scorch marks proudly each time I am reborn from my sackcloth and ashes.
I teeter and totter and toddle and fall and get back up and up. Up up and away. Sometimes too far from the Mother Ship and I must go back, back,back and connect. Still you might like a ride in my elevator. It only goes up and up.

Up in My Elevator                                KD Rouse  1/25/2012

                  The doctors say delusional

                   I tell them that they have it wrong

                   Step into my elevator

                   You’ll sing a different song

                   The doctors say delusional

                   They don’t see the things I do

                    Step into my elevator

                    Step into my shoes

                   Go Go Go

                   Up in my elevator

                   Go Go Go

                   Up in my elevator

                   Go Go Go

                   A little higher doctor

                   Go Go Go

                   Up in my elevator

             The preacher says confessional

                   I tell him everything I’ve done

                   He tries to stay professional

                   You know he wants to run

                   La La La La La La La La La

                   Go Go Go

                   Up in my elevator

                   Go Go Go

                   Up in my elevator

                   Go Go Go

                   A little higher preacher

                   Go Go Go

                   Up in my elevator

                  

                   La La La La La La La La La

                   Go Go Go Up in my elevator

The End

I am jealous of dead people in 2011. It is absurd and wrong, but I envy them for being through with this pain. I hurt and I can't get it to stop. Too many of my milestones are heartache and misery. I don't like my life. I don't value my life. I am sorry, sorry, sorry I feel this way.
For 2012, I need change. Things have got to change. I can't live like this with a broken heart and a mind of misery, battling the need for money to eke out a stupid, worthless existence.
This site has helped me, given me someone to talk to, let me get out the thoughts swirling in my head, but I'm done with this too. I'm slamming the book shut on 2011 and all related subjects.
I want my life back.
I want myself back--the one excited about life and thinking she could make the world a better place, the one who was guided by love and believed happiness was achievable.
I am left with this shell and misery.
I have to believe 2012 will be better.
I am the control. I am the variable. We are both disappointed with our results.

Resolution Mantra

One, two
The big fat shoes I filled once upon a time.
Three, four
Shut the door. Crawl up the chimney
Five Six
Pick up sticks and all the other bits you've collected
Seven Eight
Lay them straight and quit whining
Nine Ten
Start over again

Captain of the Ship Needed. Inquire Within.

Silly Wabbit. Our race is an illusion. We've been running in place this whole time.
Then Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, and the dish ran away with the spoon.
You and your silly tightropes, thinking you're above it all, preening in imagined spotlights, your spirals are knots you've tied yourself, your wire, mere thread.
Is it time to take out your wholecloth and fashion anew?
Or do I piece her back together and pray the music will come?
Katherine wants to be a nice quiet librarian and share our passion for books and intellectual freedom.
KD exceeded our expectations, filled the boots we once thought were so daring, but for all her bravado, she's been wounded in battle and is MIA. Her guitar has turned to lead and it made her cry.
Kathy? Forget it. She's always crying.
She can not take over anything except children, dogs, and pretty things like flowers which is her department anyway.
Mom appears when summoned.
Angel, Delilah and Gypsy Nurse took off.
Somebody's going to have to rise to the occasion and deal with this world and get us some place. I need to be able to pay my basic living expenses .
This can't be impossible.
It just can't. I have too much done that I believe in.
I  am stalled.
I need to put energy into finding an agent.
Consistent energy.
I try here and there, here and there, and get rejected and go back to the part I love instead of pushing to find someone who can help me get from here to there. 
So there you have it: my first wish: Let me find an agent who believes in me as a writer.

Deflated

I try, and try, yet I am not solid.
I know because three times I have been deflated.
I imagined the return of the prodigal daughter after a 5 year absence from family functions, and instead received a letter saying come alone or don't come. Deflated.
I tried to be a do-gooder donating to a Breast Cancer Research Charity when I sold items on ebay. When they collected, I bounced a check. When I didn't cancel my "free" trial membership to a vanity music site, I bounced three checks. Deflated and in the hole at Christmas time.
I decided to use my time to write, vigorously attacking writing projects, believing I merit making my living as a writer or musician or something I do naturally. Instead of getting a job while I am in grad school to be a librarian, I gave myself permission to live frugally and write instead, trying to get the creations in my head on paper.
It crossed my mind as I was writing my screenplay, how doubtful it was that I could even get it read, much less having it produced. I smelled whiffs of futility, but decided to jump in instead just because. Just because the story has been dancing in my head and I just decided 5 pages a day and push, push, push, and I would have a screen play in no time.
Final Draft is my enemy.
I hate, hate, hate it.
I had 43 pages of a screenplay I was in love with--the one I have thought of for 5 years, and it crashed. I continually saved it, but it crashed and my precious creation disappeared except for a 30 page PDF version. It is only 13 pages in length, but I really lost 43 pages because the 30 page version is nothing like what it became.
I am not sure I have the heart to write it again!
I am deflated.
I feel like giving up.
Who cares anyway.
I cared a great deal and now I am deflated.
I feel like I can't win for losing.
What if I am a nothing girl after all?

The Tortoise and Ricochet Rabbit

I am the control and I am the variable, in this, my life.
The control is the tortoise that plods ever onward.
The variable is ricochet rabbit: Bing, bing, bing!
Racing hither and to, crissy-cross on my tightropes, laughing, crying and changing, the variable has lived many lives in one, from nothing to something and in between.
The control is unimpressed.
The variable cannot be repressed.
For all my experiments, I still hold only pieces and bits.
In the canyon below my high wire are broken dishes and my shiny assumptions that counted as truth yesteryear.
Once upon a time I saw truth as something to be sought.
The bloody shards below mock this idea of truth.
We have no truth, only moments of letting go of our precious baubles and learning to celebrate their smashing. Spirals, angles,  trajectories, and time, affect our truth.
Our peeping eyes disagree on what we see.
Truth lies somewhere in your buoyant step, after, after, and after the baubles smash in little tiny bits.

My Baby, My Teacher, the Rocket Scientist

My dog is small, a perpetual puppy, and he doesn't mind all the gobbledigook babytalk that comes out of my mouth. Small creatures tend to bring that out in me.

My eldest son, the Doctor of Nuclear Engineering, accepted this for a short while. I remember the time. I remember the exact spot I was standing when this changed. As I was gazing adoringly at my 3 month old baby boy, we locked eyes. He distinctly told me that he loved me but that he needed the facts (not my baby talk please.)

I changed and had a blast introducing him to the world of wondrous things with no baby talk allowed. I still sang to him, of course, which he always loved.

This whimsical black sheep, educated career waitress, broke singer/songwriter, Peter Pan, Captain of the Ship, Pied Piper mother,  is no rocket scientist, but I raised one. I surely did.