Ruderal Spaces

Though the cycle of disengagement and suffocation follow a mysterious pattern, the rise and fall of Mommy’s presence is forcefully obvious. In the high moments she inserts herself into the life of Little One with the neediness of a child at Toys R Us stomping her feet in the aisle and screaming, “I want! I want! I want!” In the low moments, her abandonment is radio silence. Lately, Mommy has been an overbearing presence. The schedule is for Little One to alternate weeks between Dad’s and Mom’s house. Mom’s week usually equates to two or three nights spent at Mom’s. But, coming out of a longish absence – 15 days or so of incommunicado and invisibility – Mommy initiated two “sleepovers” at her house during Dad’s week and then took an extra week to get back one of the weeks she missed, except Dad can take you to soccer practices and your games and I won’t be able to come get you until 8pm tonight. Mommy slipped and fell in the house while carrying groceries in (which she hates to d...

I pray to the patron saint of barren women, St. Anthony of Padua. He is also the patron saint of lost things and amputees. What can he provide? I should be paying homage to the patron saint of the fecund, whoever she may be. Barren women, whether by choice, circumstance, or biology (his or hers), are an anomaly. Giving birth is, understandably, the default. “Why don’t you have children?” is a question somewhat dangerous, fairly personal, but mostly reasonable to ask someone with whom there is any bit of a close connection, maybe even without it if the setting is right. “Why do you have children?” is unequivocally gauche. Societally, we all understand that is an obnoxious, gasp inducing, scorn deserving question to which the only dignified reply is a gracious sip of your cocktail and a discreet cast of your gaze at some vague fixture across the room. “Why don’t you have children?” Better hope the answer is biological, or better yet, “Oh, I hope to!” Biological works if it is clearl...

Sticker on the back of a suburban Chevy Suburban: “I Wanna Be Barbie. That Bitch Has Everything” Except for nipples and a complete set of parts “down there.” Apart from her popping knees and swinging arms and hips, she’s also missing articulated joints. And there’s that sadly lacking ability to stand flat footed, change her facial features, or close her eyes. She does have lots of accessories, clothes, cars, and houses. And she has Ken, whose anatomy is also wanting some key components. But, yeah, she has everything that really matters in this world, other than a heart and soul.

My heart said, lead with me. I am trustworthy. You do not need to attempt my protection. It can’t be achieved because nothing can hurt me. My very purpose is to be available for hurting; hurt doesn’t hurt me – I’m made for it. I am designed to be at the forefront of your life. I function best exposed to wounding. Put me out there. If you wish to live, it’s the safest and best thing you can do for yourself and it’s the only way to keep me from shriveling up into a scabby black hard lump. I am meant to be the first thing the world sees. I am the part of you that needs to take the brunt of your experiences. Show me off – stick me in front of you, push me up through your back, spin me around in all directions. Do anything but shove me down and stuff me deep inside. Lead with me. When you lead with some other part of yourself, thinking you are playing it safe and protecting me, that part of you can’t handle it. Your face, your ego, your clenched jaw instead gets battered, brui...