Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the momeraths outgrabe."
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I think of our life here. My husband is a teacher, a pacifist by nature and position. Shadows fall across the rough floor boards in my kitchen. The faint last glimmers of sun, steel themselves slowly into the gray sky. Soon the afternoon is dark and ghostly.
My husband arrives home shortly after 4:00pm. His pallor is stony. The Jenkins’ have lost another child. Now one son is dead and the daughter is MIA. I stir the bubbling stew. Slowly, methodically as my mind churns blood red. It is the image of anger. Nothing can erase the band of death, the wounded in a small town like ours, a wheelchair at age 23, legs missing at 20, dead at 19. The news tells us it is not that bad. The news tells us that it is not that bleak. The news does not live here.
This morning there were two, now there is one, only one child from this town still in the war. Will they survive the death trod march? The odds are not good.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
This book is laugh-out-loud funny. I got many useful tips for managing life from reading this book including the following:
1) Practical advice for how to upgrade to first class when travelling with your father
2) What to do when well-meaning friends insist on sending you pictures of their pets that you really don't care to see
3) How to be prepared when you are stranded at an eatery that only serves beer and wine
4) The etiquette of re-gifting with friends
...and much, much more. So for a great light read that keeps you laughing, I would recommend this book.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I see mothers with children that are nine and ten years of age at school drop off every morning. They pull up into the drop off lane, get out of the car, open the door for their older child, help them out of the car, make sure that the coat is buttoned and that the child has their band instrument and backpack, and kiss them goodbye before waltzing slowly back to the driver's side looking all the while to make sure that their baby makes it safely across the 500 yards that they have to cross in order to get into the school building. This is really ridiculous. I know parents who cannot commit themselves to anything further than 10 minutes away from their child's school in case the child needs them during the day. I always have to wonder why these parents aren't home schooling. That way, their child would never have to leave home during the day and they wouldn't be stressed about not being immediately available.
It perplexes me, these parents who don't want to let go, think that their children can't make it on their own at school, or need constant parental guidance yet they don't willingly take on the job of their child's education at home. It would make more sense if they just did it themselves rather than parading their doubts and worries in front of the rest of us. Maybe some people just like to be a...Martyr.
In praise of parents who want to have their own identity and who actually enjoy having time away from their kids, I would like to recommend my very favorite parenting book, "The Three-Martini Playdate: A Practical Guide to Happy Parenting," by Christine Mellor.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
One gets up, goes out to walk
(That is the man)
The other goes into the next room
and washes the dishes, cracking one.
(That is the woman)
It gets dark outside.
The children quarrel in the attic.
She has no blood left in her heart.
The man comes back to a dark house.
The only light is in the attic.
He has forgotten his key.
He rings at his own door.
and hears sobbing on the stairs.
The lights go on in the house.
The door closes behind him.
Outside, separate as minds
the stars too come alight.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
It isn't easy being free. the security of loves warm blanket no longer shrouds her at night. The living is meaner. She hadn't thought about the children. In a cramped studio over the hair salon on the corner, she cannot help but smile. The children don't like to see her here. It ruins their pride of what a mother should be. She is going back to work, teaching just a few blocks from home. It is a rough place, a school that she would never want for her own children. They stay, safe within the suburban haven fielding daily questions about her abandonment of them. Why is it so terrible whan a mother does this? It is not predictable behavior. Society expects the leaving to come from men. Her husband won't speak, he has no words for her.
Where did it all go wrong? How does the unraveling come? It all starts out so punch white and sure. There must be a beginning to this near disaterous end. She couldn't tell you. Daily she sheds a piece of the sticky web. At this rate the ten year web will quickly unravel. There are those who tell her that she is brave. She has yet to feel it, brave that is. Free for certain, how did she ever let herself get so trapped? Is seems to be the human condition. It would be unfair to say that there were no good times. The birth of the children she would never trade. When they met, her and her husband, they got on well. Same interests, same level of enducation, same general hopes for the future. Somewhere along the line they both got stuck in the hardness and boredom of day-to-day living and they lost any room that they once had for one another.
In this new space, she felt her heart coming back, stong and vibrant. Being alone is not so bad. Living as a couple is sorely overrated. She went out on her own and re-learned the city. She had grown up in the city, moving back was like coming home. Maybe it started to come apart then, she was never meant to be a suburban girl. She looked at the now empty third finger on her left hand. It could be a good idea, marriage. In theory it seemed ideal, maybe too lofty to be perpetuated by the fallible human race. Sometimes she missed the glint on her hand, but she didn't miss the perpetual failure of trying to make it work. Never being on the same page together, he was either one chapter behind or she was one chapter ahead, the nagging annoyance of unsolvable habits that she could never resolve. No, this way was more dangerous and ultimately more lonely. The fear of risk, the risk of being alone had held her back for so long. It held her back until she awoke one morning and realized that although she was married, she was still very alone. This aloneness and ability to tolerate it and learn from it would give her the strength that she needed to face her life ahead.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please
Men themselves have wondered What they see in me
Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
I do have to say that Target has been the best place that I have found so far in terms of fit and price for women's clothing. The only problem being quality over the long term (clothes are usually good for about a season). Instead of spending money on a sweater today, I came home and downloaded a new album onto my ipod. That was much more satisfying.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Enveloping the traveling bodies
Black, metal frame
The front wicker basket
Brushes the chrome handlebars
Empty and light as air
Frosty rings the metal bell
Takes the seat behind
Bobbing, blonde hair
Clad in blue
Crisp is the morning air
The mitten falls
Like a fluttering leaf
The frost-bitten, earth
Opens her bitter mouth
To swallow the
Smoky blue puffs of yarn
The red-faced child giggles
“Uh-oh mitten gone!”
Time to pedal back
The new found hurry
Punctuates the morning calm
With an icy fury
Faster, faster, faster
Black frame clanging
Child grows suddenly small
Then out of sight
The white breeze rushes
A January curtain
To close on the stillness
Of the newfound day
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!-The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Berries cast dark
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Hauls me through air-
Flakes from my heels
Godiva, I unpeel-
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry
Melts in the wall.
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.