Wednesday, February 1, 2012
taxes and death
Stretches pass between us this morning like a contagious yawn. I pull my arms upward, move towards the right. The girl follows, then the boy, then the dog. It is morning. We stretch. Fart. Yawn. Rub eyes. Sigh.
I am coming off a busy streak, then into another one. Today we craft. We paint. We walk in the rain.
So busy, I glance back at things lost in the wake. Paintings. Phone calls. Emails. Children. More peppermint tea for the kiddies. But I have done paintings, and cleaning, and shopping, and returning, and taxes. The bloody taxes.
When I started doing my taxes, I was listening to Japanese flute with monks chanting. It was peaceful. I lit incense, and took the excuse as quiet time. Taxes as meditation. Why not? There is a number at the end. The answer to your year. No questions answering questions. No children on top of me. No one asking me for anything. No death.
I organized all my medical expenses, my yearly donations, Etsy sales, and tax documentation that comes in this time of the year. I had color-coded tabs, highlighters, staples. Then I started.
Social security number.
Donation to campaign fund?
I can answer these questions. The children ran in circles from the bathroom to the dining room, giggling. Just outside the door of the office. I watched them from my computer desk. It was lovely. Then they began to circle into the office, small steps at first, just as the Schedule C and Form 8889 began taunting me.
You have no idea what you are doing with this calculator, Artist.
My Etsy shop needs a tax form. For the love of everything holy. I made a profit of $116 dollars after hundreds of hours of work. And now taxes on top of the insult.
CAN'T YOU SEE I'M DOING THE BLOODY TAXES?!?!
grunt. snuffle. is that right? None of our medical expenses count?
Harumph. Capitalism sucks. How can we make too much and not have enough?
OUT OF THE OFFICE!
Scurrying like pecking hens, they chant in discordant shrieking, "One marker, Mama? One piece of paper? One sticker? One thing that is so important I can't live without it."
YOUR CIRCULAR RUNNING IS INTERRUPTING MY CIRCULAR THINKING! Have a Lollipop! Go run! Join a gypsy caravan! OUT!
By the time I was itemizing, Jello Biafra was screaming California Uber Alles from my computer speakers. And I was screaming at the children, they giggled. My knees folded up under my body, stiff neck, and buzzing from too much wheatgrass juice. Maybe I should meditate. I'm angry, or restless, or anxious. Turn off the punk.
I am thirty-eight years old. I am surprised at my life. It is a normal life. Taxes and Dead Kennedys. Little people who giggle and wrestle and ask me for paint.
What are you up to these days? Where the hell is everyone? Who does your taxes?