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Archive for July, 2009

|| July 27, 2009 || 10:30 am || Comments (2) ||

eleventh and twelfth

I had to leave Sam and Scout there to finish the process of registering for school or I’d have been late for my breakfast date. I secured hugs from both, a top-of-head kiss from Sam, and pressed a blank check into Scouty’s waiting hand: One drives and the other handles the finances and thusly everyone feels important.

As I emerged from the crowd Samuel’s art instructor was leaning in the doorway of the library, one arm across it, hand fixed to the jamb opposite the one that propped his body.

“What’s the password?” he asked, grinning in the fool way of letches and the altogether cluelessly unsubtle. I’m sure he just thought he was being friendly.

“Um, ‘I know how to make a fist’?” He drew his arm away, allowing me passage.

I was recounting the story to Maxim and Tess over biscuits and gravy and fresh-squeezed juice half an hour later.

“It’s the scrubs, man, I’m telling you,” insisted Tessa.

“And also the awesome boobs in them,” added Maxim.

Holy shit, I’m the mother of a junior and senior in high school. How do these things happen?

:: the superior children, one million years ago ::

pee ess….I can’t believe I ever allowed such an ugly couch to be planted in my house; this is concrete proof of how severely broke we once were

|| July 21, 2009 || 9:52 am || Comments (3) ||

They Told Me That Walter Cronkite Had Died

They told me that Walter Cronkite had died

And my heart faded a little, near-imperceptibly

To those untrained in my personal emotional dealings

(they who know me best know

my statements are bold, while my pronouncements

insist on being very decidedly vague

and I grieve in third person).

The nightly news was one of the first sources

Of a great and longstanding love: Information!

With enough of it I cobbled together knowledge;

The seventies were good on my thirsty brain…

In the absence of love, child,

You go back to what you know:

Decaying bowling alleys, kodachrome-rich and

Sparsely populated with the tired,

Roadside stands whose peaches bear the promise

Of lopsided, dripping grins,

Abandoned roads where katydids have -thankfully-

Muted their screams in the face of a mild afternoon.

By some magic the gravel petered out to a

Middle-of-nowhere payphone, lonely and hungry,

Gulping quarters in great clinking draughts.

Of course it was that mysticism held in reserve

For only me, both startling and expected….

Between the end of every ring and the start of

The next lie a thousand differing sorts of hellos;

So the prisoner would soon remember his heart

And the sacred poetry of yesterday

(about blind trust and broken glass and a secret home).

‘We will rot,’ he said,

A deep voice of porcelain;

Yet I smiled,

Having really lived life.

|| July 14, 2009 || 8:54 am || Comments (3) ||

DIY epitaph

One day we all will die. Did anyone remember to tell you that, to tell you that you will expire and let go your skin? I’m sorry to always have to be the one to deliver the hard truths, but the people that love you –really and truly love you– will always tell you the truth.

And oh, I love you, you tender giant of a person.

What would you surrender to be remembered? After what part of yourself would you fashion that memory?

Here is what I know (today, anyway….two weeks from this today could be an entirely different matter): I would like the me of last night, the me that existed around eleven-thirty in the central standard of time, to serve as your memory of me. She had a can of Krylon in one hand, rattling the mixing ball within furiously, a half a fudgsicle in the other, sloppy ponytail bobbing lightly as little white discthings delivered Steppenwolf into her ears. Running-shortsed and tank-topped, she stood with legs approximating two-thirds of an isosceles triangle, right hip jutting slightly, back straight and surveying the piece on the floor.

bite of fudgsicle


purse mouth, squint eyes

dance head up and down near-imperceptably

squat and spray

feel satisfied and …dare I say?… fulfilled

I feel like a god when a piece comes together, like something feral and unkempt and in complete control. That’s how *I* want to be remembered. With bare legs and an imprecise ponytail and a strong sense of self.

I’m now wildly curious to see a list of his offenses

apparently, the other four-year-olds don't care for moe
:: apparently, the other four-year-olds don’t care for moe ::

|| July 6, 2009 || 10:20 am || Comments (4) ||

what, do you suppose?

I left my copy of The Sound and The Fury at the beach….my yellowed, slightly-worn paperback is now sitting on teak furniture in a stranger’s house, wanting for new eyes. I was careful to make sure there was no sand in it, but not careful to check for little scraps of memento that I am forever leaving in the leaves of decades-had, manytimesread books.

It was startling to realize that I ‘just don’t do Faulkner’ anymore.