The sun is creeping up over the one-story flat houses that line the opposite side of the street. I suppose my place is on a bit of a hill, because those flat houses, despite their stubby presence, seem to begrudge the sun and guard me from it's full obsession.
I'm wondering about cyclical behaviour and the preoccupation with developing familiarity in emotional habits that we work to hard to instill, and then work even harder to rectify: we call ourselves "reborn," "revamped," "reworked," "rejeuvinated," "respected." I don't know. It seems nausiatingly cliche to contemplate the meaning of life on a Thursday morning in my pyjamas, quasi-latte at my side since I forgot to buy cream; tiny sounds of my son breathing and preparing to wake coming from the other room; my back crooked from hours in this chair; cobwebs in my eyes from getting up early for "alone time"; writing extra-long sentences because I'm not sure where to end the purging of my idea. And on and on. And on.
I hear a sound. It's the shutter on my cell phone camera taking a picture of the dark. I am afraid for a second, like there's some intruder in my room with artistic inclinations. I go in. Kaeden is on the floor with my phone taking pictures of the space underneath my bed. He's got a soother in his mouth and two beside him. He's looking at the phone, as surprised at the sound as I am. He is one year old.
Snuggle the baby. Make yogurt and cereal for him to eat. Make his lunch. Wipe him off. Change diaper. Dress. Strap him into his rocking chair in the bathroom while I shower. Dress myself. Pack our bags. Get into the car. Head to school. Bye, Hunny, see you at 4. Light a cigarette and turn up the stereo. Drive away, think about work. The sun is above me now, taunting me for trusting long sleeves were necessary in the morning's tiny cold. It squashes any semblence of restriction the flat houses had, and guides me into seven hours of thinking like an adult.
The day has begun.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Five Moments
They flattened a penny for me and it's sitting on my desk. I'm squinting at it from the corner of my eye because I have this keen sense of awareness that invloves little more than it, because I'm talking about it, and the keys on this credit-borrowed computer. There have to be about 600 things on my desk along with the penny, but all I can see is it, a non-descript, two-dimensional thing I assign no meaning to except the immense comfort that my son isn't watching Tree House while I am flipping pancakes for members of the earth barely heavier than pancakes themselves.
***
I often wonder how I can bury myself in six years of intense schooling, which garnishes some kind of respect, mostly from people who chose not to do the same, but then feel as though I've gained a huge amount of intellectual knowledge when a 32-year-old sex trade worker addicted to crack informs me that when our thoughts and ideals don't fit into our values and morals we call them mistakes. Do I really find this earth-moving on its own merit, or am I superficially impressed because it came from someone who thinks flip-flops make her like Cinderella? If I do, I am oppressing her with my condescending admiration, and may as well take my place among the long line of people who have turned her heart to pulp.
***
Sometimes I think that in trying to escape meaninglessness I am fulfilling my greatest fear by working so hard for freedom that I miss out on the liberating moments of my life. Only _____ more _____ and I'll be free, time to settle in, flounder around in a bubble bath, hire a sitter and spend the time under a tree somewhere, get my hair cut by someone else. The time carries on and only the lies I tell myself can keep up.
***
I want to find the Maa words for "create" and for "peace" so I can introduce them to the average Canadian via a name for my freelancing enterprise and a tattoo on my left wrist, respectively. Maa is spoken by the Maasai, a tribe in Northern Kenya that have complex initiation rites into various stages of life and use pebbles against the cervix for birth control. They live with a simple abundance that inspires a shameful desire in me to go to them and beg them to make me a warrior princess. They probably would, in their kindness, and never teach me the word for "old maid" either.
***
I have decided to give up my futile hold on the shape of destiny and leave all the big decisions up to the Universe. I will continue to walk in time with my heartbeat, but there is no more room for expectations and other preconceived resentments in my life. Although I cherish them, as familiar as my mama's hands, I must let them fly away now, to the great resting place where negativity gets composted into little piles of that grogginess one feels after napping in the afternoon.
peace~
***
I often wonder how I can bury myself in six years of intense schooling, which garnishes some kind of respect, mostly from people who chose not to do the same, but then feel as though I've gained a huge amount of intellectual knowledge when a 32-year-old sex trade worker addicted to crack informs me that when our thoughts and ideals don't fit into our values and morals we call them mistakes. Do I really find this earth-moving on its own merit, or am I superficially impressed because it came from someone who thinks flip-flops make her like Cinderella? If I do, I am oppressing her with my condescending admiration, and may as well take my place among the long line of people who have turned her heart to pulp.
***
Sometimes I think that in trying to escape meaninglessness I am fulfilling my greatest fear by working so hard for freedom that I miss out on the liberating moments of my life. Only _____ more _____ and I'll be free, time to settle in, flounder around in a bubble bath, hire a sitter and spend the time under a tree somewhere, get my hair cut by someone else. The time carries on and only the lies I tell myself can keep up.
***
I want to find the Maa words for "create" and for "peace" so I can introduce them to the average Canadian via a name for my freelancing enterprise and a tattoo on my left wrist, respectively. Maa is spoken by the Maasai, a tribe in Northern Kenya that have complex initiation rites into various stages of life and use pebbles against the cervix for birth control. They live with a simple abundance that inspires a shameful desire in me to go to them and beg them to make me a warrior princess. They probably would, in their kindness, and never teach me the word for "old maid" either.
***
I have decided to give up my futile hold on the shape of destiny and leave all the big decisions up to the Universe. I will continue to walk in time with my heartbeat, but there is no more room for expectations and other preconceived resentments in my life. Although I cherish them, as familiar as my mama's hands, I must let them fly away now, to the great resting place where negativity gets composted into little piles of that grogginess one feels after napping in the afternoon.
peace~
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