Listening: Matt Jones, "Antietam"
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Now I'm a cage made of rosewood and steel
Pulling into the deserted gas station at night. This is a gas station that just encroaches miles of undeveloped land, near a park with a baseball field, with little kids in jerseys who pour out of minivans in the evening for summer games.
The gas station is closed, shuttered, with only lights above the gas pumps for people like me, tired moms driving back from the grocery store, stopping to get gas so she doesn't have to do it on the way to work in the morning.
The weather is perfect for windows down, for deep, even breaths, and long silences save the perfect song and the buzz of bugs that come out at night. I lean against my car, arms folded, and listen. And see. There is a late night game going on at the baseball field; I can just make out the dots of orange jerseys in the distance. Chris Bathgate's "Do What's Easy" is on in my car.
At my feet, ants are crawling along a crack leading up toward the gas pump, busy. Some are tussling with dead or dying winged bugs. I think of the article I just read about how ants don't have traffic jams, how even when you try to create a traffic jam for them, it doesn't trip them up. They have some innate sense of problem-solving, of anticipating an obstacle and working around it without much of a pause.
There are moths and other winged bugs flying all around me. A junebug is perched on the hood of my car. I look up, I remind myself to look up more often. Spiders perched in tattered webs, waiting for a meal. The crescent moon. The thick black sky, its wide-robed arms. Stars like freckles in the negative on quiet, still fingers.
The gas station is closed, shuttered, with only lights above the gas pumps for people like me, tired moms driving back from the grocery store, stopping to get gas so she doesn't have to do it on the way to work in the morning.
The weather is perfect for windows down, for deep, even breaths, and long silences save the perfect song and the buzz of bugs that come out at night. I lean against my car, arms folded, and listen. And see. There is a late night game going on at the baseball field; I can just make out the dots of orange jerseys in the distance. Chris Bathgate's "Do What's Easy" is on in my car.
At my feet, ants are crawling along a crack leading up toward the gas pump, busy. Some are tussling with dead or dying winged bugs. I think of the article I just read about how ants don't have traffic jams, how even when you try to create a traffic jam for them, it doesn't trip them up. They have some innate sense of problem-solving, of anticipating an obstacle and working around it without much of a pause.
There are moths and other winged bugs flying all around me. A junebug is perched on the hood of my car. I look up, I remind myself to look up more often. Spiders perched in tattered webs, waiting for a meal. The crescent moon. The thick black sky, its wide-robed arms. Stars like freckles in the negative on quiet, still fingers.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
My eyes sting with sweat and loveliness
Emergency Haying
by Hayden Carruth
Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor
in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,
my arms strung
awkwardly along the hayrack, cruciform.
Almost 500 bales we've put up
this afternoon, Marshall and I.
And of course I think of another who hung
like this on another cross. My hands are torn
by baling twine, not nails, and my side is pierced
by my ulcer, not a lance. The acid in my throat
is only hayseed. Yet exhaustion and the way
my body hangs from twisted shoulders, suspended
on two points of pain in the rising
monoxide, recall that greater suffering.
Well, I change grip and the image
fades. It's been an unlucky summer. Heavy rains
brought on the grass tremendously, a monster crop,
but wet, always wet. Haying was long delayed.
Now is our last chance to bring in
the winter's feed, and Marshall needs help.
We mow, rake, bale, and draw the bales
to the barn, these late, half-green,
improperly cured bales; some weigh 150 pounds
or more, yet must be lugged by the twine
across the field, tossed on the load, and then
at the barn unloaded on the conveyor
and distributed in the loft. I help –
I, the desk-servant, word-worker –
and hold up my end pretty well too; but God,
the close of day, how I fall down then. My hands
are sore, they flinch when I light my pipe.
I think of those who have done slave labor,
less able and less well prepared than I.
Rose Marie in the rye fields of Saxony,
her father in the camps of Moldavia
and the Crimea, all clerks and housekeepers
herded to the gaunt fields of torture. Hands
too bloodied cannot bear
even the touch of air, even
the touch of love. I have a friend
whose grandmother cut cane with a machete
and cut and cut, until one day
she snicked her hand off and took it
and threw it grandly at the sky. Now
in September our New England mountains
under a clear sky for which we're thankful at last
begin to glow, maples, beeches, birches
in their first color. I look
beyond our famous hayfields to our famous hills,
to the notch where the sunset is beginning,
then in the other direction, eastward,
where a full new-risen moon like a pale
medallion hangs in a lavender cloud
beyond the barn. My eyes
sting with sweat and loveliness. And who
is the Christ now, who
if not I? It must be so. My strength
is legion. And I stand up high
on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say
woe to you, watch out
you sons of bitches who would drive men and women
to the fields where they can only die.
by Hayden Carruth
Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor
in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,
my arms strung
awkwardly along the hayrack, cruciform.
Almost 500 bales we've put up
this afternoon, Marshall and I.
And of course I think of another who hung
like this on another cross. My hands are torn
by baling twine, not nails, and my side is pierced
by my ulcer, not a lance. The acid in my throat
is only hayseed. Yet exhaustion and the way
my body hangs from twisted shoulders, suspended
on two points of pain in the rising
monoxide, recall that greater suffering.
Well, I change grip and the image
fades. It's been an unlucky summer. Heavy rains
brought on the grass tremendously, a monster crop,
but wet, always wet. Haying was long delayed.
Now is our last chance to bring in
the winter's feed, and Marshall needs help.
We mow, rake, bale, and draw the bales
to the barn, these late, half-green,
improperly cured bales; some weigh 150 pounds
or more, yet must be lugged by the twine
across the field, tossed on the load, and then
at the barn unloaded on the conveyor
and distributed in the loft. I help –
I, the desk-servant, word-worker –
and hold up my end pretty well too; but God,
the close of day, how I fall down then. My hands
are sore, they flinch when I light my pipe.
I think of those who have done slave labor,
less able and less well prepared than I.
Rose Marie in the rye fields of Saxony,
her father in the camps of Moldavia
and the Crimea, all clerks and housekeepers
herded to the gaunt fields of torture. Hands
too bloodied cannot bear
even the touch of air, even
the touch of love. I have a friend
whose grandmother cut cane with a machete
and cut and cut, until one day
she snicked her hand off and took it
and threw it grandly at the sky. Now
in September our New England mountains
under a clear sky for which we're thankful at last
begin to glow, maples, beeches, birches
in their first color. I look
beyond our famous hayfields to our famous hills,
to the notch where the sunset is beginning,
then in the other direction, eastward,
where a full new-risen moon like a pale
medallion hangs in a lavender cloud
beyond the barn. My eyes
sting with sweat and loveliness. And who
is the Christ now, who
if not I? It must be so. My strength
is legion. And I stand up high
on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say
woe to you, watch out
you sons of bitches who would drive men and women
to the fields where they can only die.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
And a wee wah to you
Something beautiful:
After a long and grueling day, punctuated only by a brief bright spot playing with a friend and her kids on the lawn of the Kimbell Art Museum, Mad was doing her normal "resist bedtime" thing. Instead of being stern-go-to-bed-mommy, I took the night off and instead crawled into bed with her for a few minutes and tried a small version of that interview thing that's been making the rounds: here, here and here.
Mad, what makes you happy?
Edwin. (That's our cat, Sideswipe, who she has renamed a few times.)
What makes me happy?
Ummm. When I don't bite you.
What makes me sad?
When I bite you.
What do you think I do when you're at school?
You go.
What's your favorite part of school?
When you come back.
What makes you proud of me?
When we go to the zoo and we get the green snake.
Oh yeah?
Yeah, and it has goopy eyes. A wee wah.
What's a "wee wah"?
It's at SCHOOL! (This is her standard response to anything when we ask for clarification on.)
There's no "wee wah" at school!
And the yellow snake has the goopy eyes!
Okaaay.
I can bite you!
No, you can't. That makes me sad, remember?
(Tries to bite me, but jokingly.)
Okay, Mad, goodnight.
It was a great way to end the day.
Listening: Sarah White, "Apple in B Major"
After a long and grueling day, punctuated only by a brief bright spot playing with a friend and her kids on the lawn of the Kimbell Art Museum, Mad was doing her normal "resist bedtime" thing. Instead of being stern-go-to-bed-mommy, I took the night off and instead crawled into bed with her for a few minutes and tried a small version of that interview thing that's been making the rounds: here, here and here.
Mad, what makes you happy?
Edwin. (That's our cat, Sideswipe, who she has renamed a few times.)
What makes me happy?
Ummm. When I don't bite you.
What makes me sad?
When I bite you.
What do you think I do when you're at school?
You go.
What's your favorite part of school?
When you come back.
What makes you proud of me?
When we go to the zoo and we get the green snake.
Oh yeah?
Yeah, and it has goopy eyes. A wee wah.
What's a "wee wah"?
It's at SCHOOL! (This is her standard response to anything when we ask for clarification on.)
There's no "wee wah" at school!
And the yellow snake has the goopy eyes!
Okaaay.
I can bite you!
No, you can't. That makes me sad, remember?
(Tries to bite me, but jokingly.)
Okay, Mad, goodnight.
It was a great way to end the day.
Listening: Sarah White, "Apple in B Major"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It can be okay
Something beautiful:
Little blooms of possibility where I thought nothing was going to grow. Feeling the glorious sense of peace that comes with options. My new great wisdom. Options, the stuff of life. It's maybe not the most essential part, but darn if it isn't so very freeing.
Else:
The literal blooms of possibility in my little grow station. Tiny seeds shooting determined stems from the dirt. My favorite are the tiny tomato seedlings, the sharp, fuzzy curve the stems make as they push up from the dirt, almost folding in on themselves.
Also:
The unabashed joy of the family I passed on the trail today. The woman, who I guess was the mother/wife of the people trailing just behind her, doing a funny little walk as her family laughed at a joke I wasn't in on. We met eyes and she smiled wide and laughed -- such a refreshing change from the tight nods and flick of grin on the faces of everyone else, so intent on their fitness they forget to notice all the amazing things going on around them.
Listening: Chris Bathgate, any song because hot damn this is good stuff, but we can go with "Yes, I'm Cold"
Little blooms of possibility where I thought nothing was going to grow. Feeling the glorious sense of peace that comes with options. My new great wisdom. Options, the stuff of life. It's maybe not the most essential part, but darn if it isn't so very freeing.
Else:
The literal blooms of possibility in my little grow station. Tiny seeds shooting determined stems from the dirt. My favorite are the tiny tomato seedlings, the sharp, fuzzy curve the stems make as they push up from the dirt, almost folding in on themselves.
Also:
The unabashed joy of the family I passed on the trail today. The woman, who I guess was the mother/wife of the people trailing just behind her, doing a funny little walk as her family laughed at a joke I wasn't in on. We met eyes and she smiled wide and laughed -- such a refreshing change from the tight nods and flick of grin on the faces of everyone else, so intent on their fitness they forget to notice all the amazing things going on around them.
Listening: Chris Bathgate, any song because hot damn this is good stuff, but we can go with "Yes, I'm Cold"
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Abandoning my something beautifuls for a moment
Life, I am at a loss. What do I do with you?
I picture an electric cord, frayed at the end, little pieces of wire sticking out in all directions, searching for a connection. Every day I am puzzling over the pieces, trying to figure out how to fuse it all back together, or maybe cut some out altogether, or find someone who can help me put it together, a professional maybe. Feeling more and more that I need to just pitch the whole cord into the trash and buy a new one. Start all over.
But how do you start all over when you have a thousand other things that need power in the meantime?
My job is not connecting.
My extended family is not connecting.
My childcare situation is not connecting.
My health is not connecting.
My finances are not connecting.
My passions are not connecting.
My husband's job is not connecting.
My husband's health is not connecting.
My faith that things will get better is not connecting.
I am trying to maintain a positive attitude, to recognize that sometimes life is HARD, with all the whiny angst a cliche like that implies, and that living is equal parts staying the course while trying to figure out a better course in the meantime.
Right now, it's too much. I'm staying the course as best I can but it's all I can do, really. To keep going because I don't have a choice. In that, there's just no room to find a better course. I'm spinning my wheels, flailing. I don't know what to do but duck my head down and keep trying. To realize that sometimes trying will only lead to failure. And sometimes successes. I hope I can create a little magic soon, and I hope it's enough to sustain me when it seems like everything else is a giant fail.
Life, throw me a bone here. I appear to be stuck.
Something funny:
http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Prejudice-Zombies-Classic-Ultraviolent/dp/1594743347
Okay, okay. Here is something beautiful:
Thank goodness for my beautiful girls.
Listening: Delta Spirit, "People C'mon"
I picture an electric cord, frayed at the end, little pieces of wire sticking out in all directions, searching for a connection. Every day I am puzzling over the pieces, trying to figure out how to fuse it all back together, or maybe cut some out altogether, or find someone who can help me put it together, a professional maybe. Feeling more and more that I need to just pitch the whole cord into the trash and buy a new one. Start all over.
But how do you start all over when you have a thousand other things that need power in the meantime?
My job is not connecting.
My extended family is not connecting.
My childcare situation is not connecting.
My health is not connecting.
My finances are not connecting.
My passions are not connecting.
My husband's job is not connecting.
My husband's health is not connecting.
My faith that things will get better is not connecting.
I am trying to maintain a positive attitude, to recognize that sometimes life is HARD, with all the whiny angst a cliche like that implies, and that living is equal parts staying the course while trying to figure out a better course in the meantime.
Right now, it's too much. I'm staying the course as best I can but it's all I can do, really. To keep going because I don't have a choice. In that, there's just no room to find a better course. I'm spinning my wheels, flailing. I don't know what to do but duck my head down and keep trying. To realize that sometimes trying will only lead to failure. And sometimes successes. I hope I can create a little magic soon, and I hope it's enough to sustain me when it seems like everything else is a giant fail.
Life, throw me a bone here. I appear to be stuck.
Something funny:
http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Prejudice-Zombies-Classic-Ultraviolent/dp/1594743347
Okay, okay. Here is something beautiful:
Thank goodness for my beautiful girls.
Listening: Delta Spirit, "People C'mon"
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Feeling literary
Something beautiful I read today:
"The most incredible thing about goldfish, however, is their memory. Everyone pities them for only remembering their last three seconds, but in fact, to be so forcibly tied to the present -- it's a gift. They are free. No moping over missteps, slip-ups, faux pas or disturbing childhoods. No inner demons. Their closets are light filled and skeleton free. And what could be more exhilarating than seeing the world for the very first time, in all of its beauty, almost thirty thousand times a day? How glorious to know that your Golden Age wasn't forty years ago when you still had all your hair, but only three seconds ago, and thus, very possibly it's still going on, this very moment." -- from Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
Plus:
“Sartaj was thinking about how uncanny an animal this life was, that you had to seize it and let go of it at the same time, that you had to enjoy but also plan, live every minute and die every moment.” -- from Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra (which I read via The Happiness Project, which is SUCH a great site.)
Also:
(also found on The Happiness Project)
Listening: Imbris, "Just a Tree"
"The most incredible thing about goldfish, however, is their memory. Everyone pities them for only remembering their last three seconds, but in fact, to be so forcibly tied to the present -- it's a gift. They are free. No moping over missteps, slip-ups, faux pas or disturbing childhoods. No inner demons. Their closets are light filled and skeleton free. And what could be more exhilarating than seeing the world for the very first time, in all of its beauty, almost thirty thousand times a day? How glorious to know that your Golden Age wasn't forty years ago when you still had all your hair, but only three seconds ago, and thus, very possibly it's still going on, this very moment." -- from Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
Plus:
“Sartaj was thinking about how uncanny an animal this life was, that you had to seize it and let go of it at the same time, that you had to enjoy but also plan, live every minute and die every moment.” -- from Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra (which I read via The Happiness Project, which is SUCH a great site.)
Also:
(also found on The Happiness Project)
Listening: Imbris, "Just a Tree"
Friday, May 1, 2009
It's all going on without you
Because I can't think of anything more beautiful than watching her grow:
Madeleine, lately, is this endless well of unbridled energy and extremes, full of questions, answers and demands. I see her soaking up everything with her curious eyes, can see things shifting and clicking in and out of place there, and it is, frankly, a little terrifying. She's moving so fast and I feel like I'm spinning in place and I can't keep up.
I sense her core, still developing, slipping out of my grasp, even while I frantically reach for it, understanding that there are so many lessons to learn and aware that I can never teach them all. Then the core is back and everything is solid again. I feel sure of the things I can show her, and unafraid of what I can't.
And then it changes again.
My sweet girl, I love watching you grow. But you're doing it so fast, and pulling me along for the ride. I'm doing all I can to hold on, and all I can to let go.
Madeleine, lately, is this endless well of unbridled energy and extremes, full of questions, answers and demands. I see her soaking up everything with her curious eyes, can see things shifting and clicking in and out of place there, and it is, frankly, a little terrifying. She's moving so fast and I feel like I'm spinning in place and I can't keep up.
I sense her core, still developing, slipping out of my grasp, even while I frantically reach for it, understanding that there are so many lessons to learn and aware that I can never teach them all. Then the core is back and everything is solid again. I feel sure of the things I can show her, and unafraid of what I can't.
And then it changes again.
My sweet girl, I love watching you grow. But you're doing it so fast, and pulling me along for the ride. I'm doing all I can to hold on, and all I can to let go.
Listening: Vertigo Smyth, "Breathless"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)