Babies

Babies
by Alice Fulton

born gorgeous with nerves, with brains
the pink of silver polish or
jellyfish wafting ornately
through the body below.
An invertebrate cooing
on the mother
tongue shushes and lulls them into thinking
all is well. As they grow they learn
salvage: tear-out
guides to happiness say apologies can outshine
lies, guilt be lickspittled from their lives, bad
glycerined to good. Like a child's first school pencils
in their formal brilliance
and sharp new smells, they lie
as lovers. Maybe one cries
the wrong name and the night skinning
them pleasantly alive
leaps away in shards.
Then it's time for restitution:
a tin of homebaked,
holding gingham safety, fetal
as the light through mason jars of beets and brine,
or jewelry, clasping and unclasping
aisles of fluorescence from great department stores,
a distracting plenitude, and tempting.
Still, the beloved may stay bitter as an ear
the tongue pressed
into, unwanted.
And the word end: spiney, finally-formed,
indents them and is
understood. They learn
the hard way as hurts
accrue, and the brain is cratered as a rock
by rain that fell ages past
on unprotected mud. An insult keeps
despite apologies. When it vaporizes at last,
its space fills with grains that harden
to a fossil shaped exactly
like the insult.
They grow up when they know that
sometimes
only a gesture responsive as a heart-
shaped parachute above a jump
a life depends on
to be perfect
the first time will ever do.

Late for work, cursing school buses and attempting to do physical therapy exercises while driving was how she found me. Sucking down bus fumes, I watched as a car caught her and spun her. It had barely been going thirty, if that, on a four lane stretch of road occupied by three yellow buses in very close proximity, all flashing lights and outstretched stop signs. How confusing it must have been for her, even at that speed, tying to follow the primal paths branded deep into her DNA. The car must have hit her low, she spun halfway around then crumpled. Then my line of sight was ever so briefly blocked. When I caught sight of her again, she was laid down on the road, legs beneath her. With her single intact leg, she kept reaching out, trying to pull herself to her feet. Her neck straining forward, towards escape. It was obvious, this would not be accomplished. Her three other legs were splintered beneath her. It was silly to think I could imagine the stark fear, pain and confusion she must have been feeling. Silly, when I could so easily just continue on my way. And what is one animal's suffering to us, all sheathed in our business and self-importance?
It's seems always to be when we are at our most hurried, harried, hectic state that life grabs us and spins us round. Our mundane, routine, banal interrupted by someone elses' devastation.

A poem about geese

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
--over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
© Mary Oliver

There are a few things about this poem that I really, really like. That are resonant. I love some of the very first lines, "You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." I love the image of relenting and letting "the soft animal of your body love what it loves." Usually in the body/mind divide, the body is branded as this raw, primitive, barbaric thing mastered by the brain only through constant grappling. I love the idea that your body is this separate, gentle being that only desires to love. I also like "the clear pebbles of rain." When the verse finds its way to the geese, it ends up losing me - I am anti-goose for my own petty reasons.

Graffiti seen around my neighborhood

"NARC" carved into the sidewalk.

"Mortons absolutely the BEST PRIME" sharpied onto the remnants of a sticker on the back of a signpost.

Please discuss amongst yourselves.

Rainy day

Apparently, I will be quietly coloring with my crayons inside all weekend. Actually there's a snowball's chance in hell that I'll actually make good on that. I'm sure I'll be flitting here and there per usual, leaving my poor dog to wonder if Mama's a by-the-hour escort.

Ab Don't

So this story starts out with me watching infommercials. At the nail salon. Because they're two lovely plasmas (or LCDs, or whatevers) were both tuned in to the hour (plus?) long Ab-Doer infommercial channel. Natch what I expect to be viewing as I sit in the surprisingly brutal massage chair and have yet another shade of taupe applied to my toenails.
Anywho, this thing's been around for years and we've all seen it (http://www.thane.com/products/fitness/abdoer-twist/abdoer-twist08.php.) It's an exercise "device" designed to "target" the general abdominal region. Lo these many years that I've been laboring under the impression that the name, "Ab-doer" referenced the fact that it "do" your "abs." (Quotation signs reaching potentially lethal levels of saturation - awesome.) NOW I learn that the "inventor" of the Ab-doer is, in fact, one Mister John Abdo. Um, wha WHA? Which begs the inevitable question; did he name his invention after himself? Or did he legally change his name to mark the historic event? File under things that make you go hmmm, though there are too many to number...

Indicative of

So let me tell you about my stick-to-it-iveness (sticktoitiveness? sp??) and, no, I'm actually not going to just make the blanket comment that it sucks. That would be too easy, and also not accurate, bc I'm veritably obsessive about certain things. Like running. Oh, running. Running is like meth to me. Except that I don't get all krayzee and my teeth don't fall out. And yet, it's still extraordinarily addictive. So maybe it's more like really good weed to me, since I sometimes feel like it makes me stupider.
Anywho, so I'm very inconsistent in my commitment to things. I'm also sort of all over the place mentally lately, with lately referring to possibly the past 6 years of my life. You know how some people focus on their career, and then lament that they've neglected their personal life? And how other people channel all of their energy into their family and, later, regret not developing their career? Well, I've focused on neither my career nor my family and have discovered, for the benefit of all, that when you do so you end up with neither enviable career nor gorgeous family. I'm not quite sure exactly WHAT I have. I have a lot of stuff. I have a cool, wonderful dog (and, yes, I pretend she's my daughter, don't give me that look.) I can turn myself out rather well when necessary. I've taken decent care of myself; I'm fit and strong and look younger than I am. But as for real, substantive things - I come up lacking. And here it is Thanksgiving again...

Well, that worked out well

But I have excuses! And boy howdy, do I! Though actually, nothing terribly legitimate. Just the usual excessive, petty busyness. We had a lunch for a sadly departing coworker (sad for me, happy for her) which prevented me from running home to potty my dog during the day, which meant I had to cancel PT for that day. These are the days of our lives. I know, bo-ring. But somehow all this small stuff ends up filling up all of my time and bogging me down. And I'm left wondering whether I actually have a lot of activities filling up my days, or if I'm just a terrible time-manager.

Wha wha?

What? I have a blog? Stop it! Who knew? Obviously not me, at least not for the past, what, six months? It was a chor to log in, that's telling right there.
So today is October 27, 4 days before Halloween. And exactly a month before my birthday. As good a day as any. I think I'm going to try forcing myself to write something five days a week. Length need not matter - that's how I'm going to make it as enticing and torture-free as possible to myself. What a pallaver! What a treat!
Oh hey, remember how I was going to go into physical therapy? Like many moons ago? Well, I'm still in it. I'm totally addicted - not to say it's not doing oodles of good for me, because it truly is. It helps that I adore everyone at the PT place. So I'm just going with it, enjoying a little nice company while I do some stretches and roll a ball up and down a wall with my face. And maybe some day I can stop being a hunch-backed, twisted freak.

Back in the saddle

It seems trite to actually go about making this into a post, but I'm going to just be unabashed. It feels so good to ride again. I grew up as a horse girl - when I wasn't in lessons or at camp, I had shelves of horse books and dozens of Breyer's (but, of course.) So after twelve (?) years of no riding (though I have been working with horses for the past five,) starting back up (and over to a certain extent,) just feels so good. Although after an hour of physical therapy in the morning and an hour and a half private lesson in the evening, my body is finding previously unexpressed ways to "thank" me.

Things you don't want to hear from a massage therapist

1) "You're killing me here."

2) "You're well on your way to a dowager's hump."

Known quantity

I think know too much about the things that I don't need to, and too little about the things that I should.

Baring of the soul

I have a confession to make. In my office, as in many similar corporate type offices across the country, our supply buyers are stingy on the TP. There's usually enough (USUALLY) but it's of the flimsy, one-ply nature. Yes, you know. The rolls are kind of an infinity coil when they're brand new - no discernible beginning or end. And what I've observed is that a great number of my coworkers quickly grow frustrated when they are compelled to pull toilet paper off of a new roll. When left to their own devices, they seemingly attempt to effect smooth paper dispersal via random, infuriated clawing at the roll. What is left behind is a roll that looks like a badger has had a go at it and a tall pile of thin shreds below.
So. I now go into the ladies' room at the very start of every day and "start" all the toilet paper rolls in every stall. Thank me later folks!

Debris

I am forever left behind. At every phase of my life I've been the late bloomer, the last-comer. It is a pattern, a motif, it is my brand. Always watching the others before me go through the motions of things that I am waiting for. Then, when I finally arrive at the picnic spot on the lawn where everyone else has already stamped down the grass, it seems hollow, cardboard. I'm not able to savor it since I've already been left behind on the next milestone.

While we're on the subject

Why is chocolate considered to be sexy? I mean, though not my bag, I can understand that some people find it tasty or satisfying, but sexy? Turn on the tv; every commercial for chocolate bars, ice cream, even low-fat artificial chocolate-tinged yogurt features some languid, nubile woman licking, sucking, fellating some vehicle of chocolate delivery. Chocolate turns into brown, silken garments. Who wears chocolate clothes?? Honestly people, just say no.

Chocolate

There are a couple things about chocolate that really bother me, and bother me more and more the more I think about them. First, there's the seemingly universal belief that because I am a woman, I am therefore also a chocoholic. Why must I feign all manner of gratuitous conniptions over chocolate simply because I have more estrogen than the mail guy? I don't HATE chocolate, but honestly too much chocolate comes along pretty quickly. I just don't GET those quintuple chocolate death cakes with fudge sauce and cocoa nibs. Don't you peoples' palates get tired of the onslaught? Have you ever come out in a crowd and said, "Hey, so chocolate. What's the big whoop?" People look at you like you've just confessed to murdering your childhood best friend behind the swingset when you both were 10. All conversation comes to an abrupt and very pointed halt. Finger foods drop from people's suddenly slack lips. You've somehow insulted every one of these people, in a way that is so horrific that none of them will look at you the same way ever again. It's like you've just copped to digging little kids or something. It's on that level. NEVER say you don't have multiple orgasms over chocolate in public. In fact, scratch that - never say it outloud. Period. When everyone at the table is ordering dessert, and you are somehow forced to split yet another flourless chocolate layer cake with the mindless zombie next to you, just do it. Choke down that bollis of cocoa that forms an impenetrable, gluey film inside your mouth and LOVE every second of it. Yum.

How? Just, how? http://health.discovery.com/tv/i-didnt-know-i-was-pregnant/about.html

I'm just saying. There had to be something to clue you in, you know. Though I neither know nor know OF anyone who has experienced this, er, phenomenon. And thanks to this show, I'm perpetually expecting to spontaneously deliver in the ladies' room at work.

More momentousness!

Today, I've set aside an entire day to pack. Because tomorrow, I leave for London where I'll spend the next 5 days and from there I'll be on my way to New Zealand, and then on to Hawaii. It's the trip of a lifetime. I've planned out all sorts of mandatory, touristy stuff but also plenty of off-the-beaten path thisandthat and a sizeable share of downtime to just breath in the far-awayness of the place. I can't wait. Um, haha! Just kidding! I'm not going anywhere. LEAST of all anywhere interesting and global and all. Dude, I don't even have my PASSPORT. The last time I left the country, (hello, spring break in Cancun! Rad!) I used my birth certificate to gain re-entry into my homeland.
Nope, sorry. My dog, however, did pull my mattress nearly all the way off of the bed, shredding my sheets in the process. Smart dog left bored at home for too long, that's what that reeks of. And this is why we're starting doggy junior college tonight.

flatbread

Feeling mildly flat today.

Basic Flatbread Recipe
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 - 1 cup warm water

1. In a large bowl, mix together the flour and the salt. If including additional spices, add them now. Drizzle in the water with one hand, and mix with the other, until the dough begins to come together as a ball. It shouldn't be overly wet or sticky; if it's too dry, drizzle in more water.
2. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface, and knead for about 5 minutes. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let rest for an hour.
3. Remove from wrap, and divide into 6-8 equal-sized pieces of dough. On a lightly flour-dusted surface, press them flat, and roll each piece out to a disc 6 inches in diameter.
4. Set a griddle or heavy skillet over medium high heat, and lightly brush with vegetable or grapeseed oil. Place the breads, one at a time, on the griddle, moving around periodically with a spatula. If the bread begins to balloon, press it down with the spatula, and turn over. The cooking time should be no longer than about 20 seconds, total.
5. Remove each bread to a plate draped with a towel. Cover and keep warm until all done.
Makes about 6-8 breads

Not a rant

I think that maybe the saddest thing to recognize about oneself is how it's possible for you to not be enough in another person's eyes. To see that who you are and all that you have to offer is simply not what they need. To be standing in front of someone, "here," proferring all that you have to give. I feel like there's something more there than just rejection.

Farrah

Does it make me a bad person that I now reflexively change the channel/page/station when I hear Farrah Fawcett's name? It's not that I don't feel badly for her, that she's suffering. But what happens if/when she actually does die? What's left? On another note, I doubt that I'd be man enough to tell America that I had anal cancer. Wouldn't everyone then just be visualizing my cancer-riddled anus?

Wondering more stupid s*** lately

Why don't unpadded bras exist in sizes lower than a D cup? (And why, when they do, must they resemble some sort of therapeutic, surgical-recovery bra?) Why does the lingerie industry assume that anyone with bosoms smaller than a D cup is most certainly yearning for a more ample rack?

Is this bad?

Is it bad that I have to bribe myself with all these tiny rewards on a pretty regular basis? Or does that mean I'd just be a really effective (and also cool!) mom? Is it bad that I've already been bribing myself with the vacation I'll be taking in September?

Wondering some stupid s*** lately

Why is the vegetable of the day so often multiple vegetables? And doesn't that derogate the identities of the individual vegetables?