Broken
Lucy has sloppy elbows.
You know how a cat assesses space with her whiskers? Well. Lucy's elbows are not whiskers. If she is called by name or a great idea or something that needs to be proclaimed, the excitement causes an abrupt and oblivious response of her entire body with no respect for spatial consequences. Someone says "Lucy", she turns, and 9 times out of 10, her elbow smashes a glass of water. The 10th time smashes a cat or her brother. Lucy has sloppy elbows.
I am always on my knees. It made me mad at first. The sound of breaking glass made me jump, wince, grit my teeth. But you can't beat them, so you join them. You get used to it after awhile. You might even smile. There's a subtle music in the sound of shattering glass. A song that an old part of us remembers and loves. I am always on my knees. Sweeping up glass. The way parents pray.
I am so fucking happy sometimes. And sometimes I'm sad. Then I'm angry. Happy again. Bursting with sublime joy. And there are spaces between where I couldn't even tell you. My wife asks me what I'm thinking and I don't know. These might be my favorite times. When you can only express yourself with contradiction or vague nonsense. I'm a blue candle. Or an orange song. Television static. Something blurry. Like the things drunks mutter or dreams you can't remember. Things you forgot. All these pieces. This is the stuff I think about when I'm sweeping up shards of broken glass. What's announced in coming apart? Be careful with the pieces. Broken things are sharp.
What's more painful? Being broken or struggling to be whole? I don't know. But I confess a weakness for broken things. I like things that don't make sense. Things that are out of place. They stick out. I like bad people. Broken people that don't fit. Thieves. Drunks. Bums. And kids with sloppy elbows.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Reader Comments (28)
As I sit here in the dark of 4:24 am, wondering if I should wake my little guy for a breathing treatment or let him rest (it was a very long night for us), I just wanted to say: Struggling to be whole is killing me. Beating me senseless. Perfect, as in whole ...
It is so dark.
What's more painful is struggling to be whole while people who perceive themselves to be whole stand there watching me, hands on their hips, preaching.
There's an exquisite view to be had from broken. I think I'll stay over here.
This is gospel this morning. It's a long story. Thank you.
Broken is what I know best. And I come by it honorably -- years of being the one who knocked over her milk. Though my own parent was not gentle with me, as it seems you are with Lucy. (The way parents pray. -- beautiful line)
I want to rip the glass from my computer screen and dive into this post. It is that beautiful.
sometimes I wonder if I used to be whole and now I'm just slowly losing parts.
Broken. Yeah, I know broken. And I too find that sometimes, when I have nothing to say at all, those times are when I'm truly me . . .
I am secretly broken and struggle to articulate this, even to myself. This was refreshingly honest...if not brutal.
"Broken things are sharp"....I couldn't agree more.
This might be the great alternative to The Velveteen Rabbit. And it's been a long time coming.
Who likes perfection? Imperfect is so much prettier and raw.
I once knocked over a glass with my ass. I take no responsibility for that though.
We're all broken over here; we don't even try to be whole. We just keep a look out for each other and in that way keep our family whole, even if individually we are broken.
You are good to choose elbows over grace.
Broken is not valued where I live. Not at all. It's hard to fit in here and I've been railing myself pretty hard for a long time for not.
THEN I realized that most of the people who silently raise an eyebrow about broken people are often MORE broken the the people the are repulsed by.
So?
I am coming around to being fine with who I am, thanks.
Broken bits and all.
Lovely.
The portion about emotion reminds me of a Tennessee Williams essay, "The Timeless World of a Play." it's about how emotions pile up on each other in linear, everyday life, so that we can't really assess or truly know each moment. And how in theatre you get to dissect a moment vertically. To see all the layers.
Broken things are more interesting. Means they've been around, experienced life. And if someone has loved them enough to try to piece them back together again, that's the best.
We finished cleaning up the kids' broken bits here. And then my mom broke.
I grew up in a home where spiiling a glass of milk at dinner was a personal attack on my mother who violently cleaned it up.
I now live a pretty regular life of breakage and spillage. When someone breaks/spills something they immediately get a horrified look on their face. My first reaction is to calmly sweep, sweep into the dustpan, mop mop with the paper towels, drop into the trash. Over.
It doesn't escape me that their first reaction is being scared. It must be that split second when it happens and I remember and they see it.
this might be one of my favorite posts.
get it BHJ. get it.
Beautiful.
thank you
I am not whole...but I am not broken. I am simply in pieces. Shattered so many times, I'm a mosaic of my own parts, a cracked opal sending refracted light every which way...
Lucy's elbow's are magnificent agents of chaos.
Shade and Sweetwater,
K
Sometimes I think it's easier to be broken and just accept it than to work so fucking hard to put the pieces back together. However, if I'm being honest, I don't like feeling broken.
Oddly enough, the people around me are the ones who fill in the little gaps - those gaps that happen when something is shattered so badly by a trauma, or whatever, that were created upon shattering. They don't fit "perfectly" but that's the beauty of it. They fit in a way that works...for now.
Broken here but coming to learn that broken doesn't mean flawed or faulty. Who wants to be "perfect" anyway?
I read the anger/rage post awhile ago and I'm still analyzing my thoughts to it. Every time I visit, you touch on something I can relate to....weird and a little wonderful. I am s.a.n.e. :)
Maybe I'm not feeling introspective or philosophical enough today, but all I can think of is thank god for plastic, sometimes, thank god for plastic. Amen.
what most people don't get is being broken is part of the perfection. great writing as always.
i think we are broken or at the very least, cracked and chipped.
to me, broken makes a lot more sense. but then, i still have elbows like Lucy.
and sometimes i wish i could direct them just a bit better, so as to smash the smug glass houses of those who blindly, excludingly, believe themselves whole.
Lucy's elbows aren't sloppy, they're just keeping up with life...which is most decidedly sloppy.
Let's drink to Lucy's elbows, who are brave enough to be true, unlike most of our elbows, who have been cowed into sticking close to our sides and apologetically staying out of the way.
Lucy's elbows.
Which would be a fucking great name for a band, by the way.
I've always found myself drawn to broken people too. The 'I wanna fix it' gene I guess. But now that I'm pretty broken I'm like 'get the fuck up!'
My first atempt at art college, 18 and pretty broken, taught me very little. Maybe me, maybe then, maybe there, maybe them, who knows where the blame lies. I do remember, however, a tutor referencing a cartoon in John Cleese's 'Families and How to Survive Them'. In it two people face each other, sharing a single thought bubble, which reads 'what a divinely damaged person'. I occasionally remember to look for a copy of the book to see it for myself, but there's never a copy instore, and so I forget for another year, or five. Perhaps I've can consider it a lesson learnt.