What do you think? Is it the wealth of the boat ladies down by the shore, you’d expect gold but it’s the class, the class of the plain silver, the ‘I’m so wealthy and have been for so long, that I don’t need to do anything ornate. I’m a New England Smith for goodness sakes.’ the gold is for the Italians, the Jews, the flash.
Silver or gold? The friendships, the new ones, the old ones? I don’t know which is which, I think I probably have some of the new England boat lady in me, although I’m sure they’d dispute me, but heavily mixed with the chicken shit and mud of the maine dairy farmer, and my friendships range but none are pure. None.
Silver or gold? On the tree, a mix of both. It’s the sparkle for me, the way in which the light catches and is reflected and yet also stays in place, static and kinetic.
My kids sparkle.the dog does not. He’s a solid peace of lead. Lovely for what you need, but leaden. Don’t put your tongue on him.
Silver or gold? Both. A slurry, that molten mercurial slither. Harry potter on audio. A night alone to make a fire and look at a tree and watch truly terrible but pretty movies.
Silver or gold? snowflakes hang around the kitchen . I think they are the evergreens, despite their whiteness. Did she just call snowflakes the evergreens, despite all evidence to the absolute contrariness of that sentence? Absolutely. (third person self-referencing just temporary, i swear)
Silver or gold? The singing snowman puts them together, no ‘or’, but an ‘and’. Both, inclusive.
Silver or gold? Maude is in here somewhere? The slurry perhaps. The mixing of metals and the melt into a new form.
The visiting room at the facility, the ways in which the lovers of the newcomers cling to their patients, not knowing anything but relief that the crisis is past, that they have survived it, unlike all the people who were not here. Who didn’t make it, who didn’t get found in time.
Silver and gold? The earrings that dangle in the ears of women, the bells, the come see me, the decoration at the heart of womanhood. What is it to refuse them? to not have silver or gold, anywhere, just flesh and fabric covering bones and blood. Nothing more.
Silver or gold? Working? Plaid shirts and Vermont in mind. Mountains and old guys in pickup trucks. Which one is that?
Well, here it is. I actually sat and waited for the clock to tick over into a number happier with addition, so i could do the five. This is appalling and I completely blame my mathematics education. Completely. I am a big fan of blame. I talk about it all the time. And shame. love that one too.
My best friend in the world has a lot in common with me, and many differences, and vice versa. She has started sending me helpful articles on how to deal with shame. She also demands that I turn the heat on, vaccuum more often and buy ACs for every window that there is. HELLO WISCONSIN!!
I’m cool with that. She’s my best. We’ve sorrowed many times over the fact that we most likely can’t flipflop our sexual preferences. Many times. But when you know, you know. you know?
So we muddle on. She is very funny, and man, laughing is a great thing. we should all do it more.
This week I restarted my chicken chores. Feeding them, collecting their eggs, washing their eggs, boxing em up and as it turns out, driving them around until they are all gone. Full circle. I love the little biddies. They do make me laugh. So cantankerous and just rock-like in their intellect. But, what a community of ladies. A hen house, all the time. A hen party. A gaggle. They form little packs, hierarchy is very strong with them. There are many first wives, but we call them badass bitches, boss bitches. Loud, yes, and strong. Weirdly aggressive in the watching of the egg collection. Someone pecks my leg constantly while I stand there. Not especially effective against me, but certainly annoying. everyone has their time in the box, i think. motherhood is a part of it. and loss. and complacency, and acceptance in a way. bother. dash.
be careful though. they’ll kill you and eat your innards if you let your guard down. Yes they will. the fluffy nutters.
The return always sucks. It does. Firstly you have ‘the leaving’ which is a punch in the gut.
What? I have to leave? This doesn’t go on for ever and ever? I can’t just sit and reminisce every night while the fireflies dance? No? HOW DARE YOU interject reality and flight delays into my idyll?! How fucking daaaaaare you.
But I’m here again, I’ve done this before, the leaving. It doesn’t get better and I find myself looking for ways of escaping the mundane and the daily. Its only 24 hours later. One of the ways I tried to shake it up was going to the ER for six hours last night. This was not a good idea, but my brain spent a hell of a lot of time convincing itself that I was going to go septic from an infection and die without seeing my kids again. (they are at their dad’s this whole week for their once a year ‘whole week’ with their dad.)
This is most definitely not a good way to escape, and I would not suggest this to anyone, for any reason. Between the airport and the ER, I have seen the tops and bottoms of humanity. Literally. ALthough I suppose the 1 percent at both ends don’t use public airports. true. My brain, i think, leapt on the opportunity that having the kids all tucked away provides. All of a sudden, she did the math, realized she was working every other day this week and the timesuck could only be squeezed in to the one spot, directly after disembarking. One must schedule these emergencies, you see.
you can take the kids away from the mother, but you cannot take the mother out of the mother.
Its only been a little over 24 hours since I left and I’m bumming. I spent more time with a lot of Wisconsin nurses than you’d ever believe, and it was lovely, and I have a new appreciation for how different cultures can be within a group that looks ‘just like the other one’. Nope. Not the same. I ate cheese curds and learned how to make a mojito. Very delicious, I might add. My suggestion is white rum. Or leave it out and just have the rest. Very delicious.
I miss my best friend and wish I could see her more than once a year. But I think we are lucky we can both swing that, so I guess I’ll rest there, in the morass of humanity crawling and flying at all the different stages.
And maybe I’ll get caught up on the laundry. or that book I’m supposed to be writing.
There are a million and a half things to wonder about when you arrive at an airport two to three hours early(yes, thank you to my father, not the tsa, for this trait).
Do stewardesses have to take turns and work the desks?
Why is it so much easier for men to talk to each other? Or is it just me, that i can’t talk to strangers? I don’t think its me? Is it the shared subjects, sports, weather, man stuff?
There could be some good done in the world if we were all forced to hang out in airports once in a while. I mean, the humanity. Yes, too, the priviledge and the money-spent hanging in invisible numbers above each person’s head.
But the tremendous variety in people. Saw a daughter guiding her mother through the security checkpoints. mom, with no english, tiny and wrapped in a beautiful sari. The guards were kind and accomodating, while still doing their job.
Why would anyone ever do dip? Why? And why after the first time, a second time? Whats that about? You love the drool feeling?
Couples of color separated by a guard, for a ’check’. The resigned, the terror right below that, of anything that could happen.
I’m watching moms chase kids, some with partners, some organized to the very tips of their toes, some just kind of winging it with the help of a partner. ALthough, honestly, I bet there is no ’winging it’ in airports anymore. Maybe not even in parenting. The times, they have changed.
Whats up with bringing dogs?
I sit here and miss my kids. Even while i am completely aware of how i’ve settled into another stage in my life, just like that. I’m walking through an airport and into a trip just for myself, just like that.
There is something big in it, in this small trip.
The work is still there, the flurry of childcare and job restructure, it is there.
Why haven’t i felt like a grownup til now? I’m freaking 48, you know. I wonder what the real name for this feeling is. I miss my kids, yes, but they’re fine. its all fine. and i am here for a long weekend, in this surreal travel spot.