There comes a time
when you cannot tell someone
you love them
anymore
because you’ve
realized
you actually mean it.

You cannot
let go
of something
you were never allowed
to hold.

(Click picture to know where it came from…)

The elderly women in their laminate
covered chairs knit with thin
and nimble fingers, wearing
floral summer dresses as a breeze floats
through the nearby window, top pane
propped outward with a book.
It’s cliché, I know, one has a sweater
draped over her shoulders, but she does
and who am I to call her typical.
Outside the mud stained door
of the brick building where the ladies visit, dust
floats as particles made visible by the violent
sun, carried nowhere by the gentle wind.
Each one passes me by. I cannot
gather them together for knitting.

One night after closing
the head shop where I worked,
I met my dealer in the parking
lot to buy a bag of weed.
We were friends,
practicing on occasion
an innocent flirtation.
He was a bit younger,
taller than I and his car
was much nicer than mine.
I waited inside it, breathing
leather and vanilla little
tree while he made
a telephone call on the pay phone
outside the shop, dark inside,
neon blazing on the glass storefront.
I lit a cigarette from a stolen pack
and watched him speak, hand overhead
bracing his slouch against the booth,
voice rising in apparent agitation.
He began to scream, “You don’t care!
You don’t care! You don’t even
FUCKING care!” as he slammed
the phone into the receiver again
and again, then released it to swing,
innocent victim in a lynching.
As he made his way back to the car
I averted my eyes
as you might from the pants
of one who pissed himself
in a drunken stupor, pretending
not to notice his tears.

i am addicted to this song.

lyrics.

enjoy.

This is a candid post about what’s going on in my life right now.

It’s been interesting to me, since Father Luke moved to Portland, seeing how people react to him.

It’s not easy adjusting, introducing a man to your children, worrying about how they will receive him or how he will receive them. I was worried how the kids would deal with having him around. Originally, after he moved to Portland, we had decided we wouldn’t introduce them for a very long time. Months or a year. But eventually I couldn’t hold off introducing them. I knew they would hit it off, and they did. The kids know who their Dad is, and they love him. But they know they also have Father Luke, and that’s a different sort of love all together.

The children have never had a hard time calling him Father Luke. For the older ones it’s Father Luke. For the younger ones it’s more like Pah WOOK, or Fadder WOOK. Fadder WOOK come HERE!

It’s interesting introducing your boyfriend as Father Luke. Mostly, I just make the introduction and let him take it from there. There’s usually a remark… ‘So you’re a priest? What church are you with?’ Or people will ask me as an aside, ‘What should I call him?’ Usually I say, ‘Well, I call him Father Luke, but you can call him whatever you’d like. Or maybe you should ask him what he would like to be called.’

Then, as my mind is apt to do… it starts wandering. Why do people have such a hard time calling him Father Luke? Sometimes it’s even met with open hostility, there is a tone of accusation that comes along with the questions. But why should it be any different than calling someone by their name? Or a nickname? If someone has a preference for what they be called, is it really putting yourself out so much to just call that person what they would like to be called?

For those who want to know the whys, he is always very patient.

But anyways.

I call him Father Luke. There are a couple of nicknames I have… but those are usually saved for private.

Another issue I have faced, since separating from my husband, are those who assume that I left Chris for Father Luke, which I didn’t. My marriage was over a long time ago. Neither of us had been happy for years. But we have, on a couple of different occasions, been confronted by someone who wants me to understand this or this or this or my ex should or would or could feel this way because I left him for Father Luke, which apparently justifies all sorts of things. It’s a nifty excuse. But it just isn’t true.

I left Chris because our marriage was over.

Then there are those who assume that it can never work. Those who may have encountered Father Luke over the internet and cannot believe in any way shape or form that there is even a remote possibility that he could be good to me. But in reality, he treats me like a princess. He does dishes. He helps fold laundry. He takes the garbage out of the garbage can and takes the can to the curb. He fixes me chicken soup and banana muffins from scratch when I am sick. He not only tolerates, but loves my four screaming, whining, running, jumping, coughing, giggling, snotty, sweet little kids.

There is really something to be said for a man who not only tolerates, but really actively loves another man’s children.

That alone tells me that my Mom would have loved him.

And all the things he does for me every day are not even a consideration. He does them because it’s who he is. He does them without expecting anything in return. He does them because he is a good man.

And good men are very, very rare anymore.

Which isn’t to say we don’t have our share of struggles. But as the Bright Eyes song goes: ‘I’d rather be working for a paycheck then waiting to win the lottery…’

You stand
on hardwoods in front
of a dirty
four pane window
with no curtains, head
tilted sideways
and up,
the faintest
hint of a smirk tugs
your mouth, bowed
and full bottom lip.
Eyes empty, you are somewhere
deep inside,
behind the creases
in the corners,
holding your life
steady
for someone
yet to come.

a sample of what people search when they search for me. my favorite is ‘absolut cunt’ vodka.

Search
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“absolut cunt” vodka
who is jeniffer wills?
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wonder what will happen to my name when the divorce is final and maybe i’m not jenifer.wills anymore.