Deconstructionist

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Florida

Here in Florida, I say to whoever will listen, I live and die by a breeze.  Inland from the sea they criss-cross in secret, unexpected bursts.



It looks like it might storm.  Might.  It has not once rained like it did last year.  Not even once.  I’ve been waiting, thirsty, for the deluge, for the thunder and the lightning but it has not come.  Maybe today is the day.

Maybe not.



The potential for a storm seems to be blowing over.  My run today will be blistering hot and unforgiving.  At my hottest, I feel thirst all the way down my throat, to the depths of my lungs.  I long to fill my lungs with ice water.  I imagine when exhaling, deadly cold water pouring down my chin and over my jugular.  I imagine ice water coursing through the white-hot pulse in my temples and on the scorched acreage of my skin.  I long to drown, running from remote island of shade to remote island of shade.  I consider the fractions of a second between life and death. Arriving at that next spot of shade between which two periods of radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the caesium 133 atom (of which there are 9,192,631,770 for the duration of each one second) would make the difference between my life and my death.  Can any human activity be sliced so thinly?  If I were to drown in my own ice water, at which exact hyperfine moment could I no longer change my notion of folly and chose to live?  … I think, stepping into the next breeze.





Monday, July 07, 2014


I went out when in was 84ºF, and by the time I stopped running it was 88ºF.  For every 15 minutes that I ran I raised the temperature in the metro area by 1ºF.


Wednesday, July 03, 2013

It's just a phase

FOUR is a new kind of terrible.  Histrionics, assurances, confidence, and distain: in adult+ size proportions.  I was cocky about mothering a baby, and a one, a two, and a three year old.  I really thought I was good.  WORLD'S BEST MOM, I thought.  Like an asshole.  Because I didn't make it very far.  4, turns out, really sucks.

The other day this particular 4yo I know was constipated.  Here is an actual quote in which she says to me: "I'm ASSUMING you think this is a big deal... Trust me on this, I'm never gonna have to poop.  I'll be fine mom, I'm fine.  Trust me on this.  I DON'T need to poop."

"Trust me mom!   I'll be fine if I never poop.  I'm assuming you don't know that, but I'll be fine!"

TRUST and ASSUME, her newest concepts.  

Of course, I bent her in half like an angry steel rod, forcing her concave to sit on the MUTHRFECKG TOILT.  Battle of wills ENSUES.  OF COURSE, I lose.  My face is scratched.  She's pinched off.  Tears, recriminations, denouncements... fists even, follow.  SLAM.

"Whew, she says, (I hear her through the bedroom door) "glad that's over!"

Being evil as fuck -- as I am -- I waited...  and an hour after she fell into the deepest redemptive sleep-state possible I puppet-walked her into the bathroom where she defenselessly passed a medieval mace of a turd-head with only a somnolent whimpering resistance.  TAKE THAT!

Meanwhile, I'm still searching Pandora for a hip-hop mama song.

SOMEBODY WRITE ME AN ANTHEM THAT'S GOT A GOOD BEAT.



Monday, June 24, 2013

Summer Noir

I made it to summer.  I made it and all time is my time.  I said.  Then BAM we're all sick, knocked down and wiped out.  Not a little sick but a whole lot sick.  Thea has an inhaler for her persistent cough.  I have antibiotics for an ear infection, Rx Sudafed and Rx Flonase, two anti-inflammatories (Meloxicam and Celebrex) for my back, as well as Vicodin, and a GABA something that is supposedly "a good high."  We've been to the doctor 3x, and to the hospital once, for X-rays.  So . . . happy summer!


Thea, now four, is having an existential crisis.  She's been talking about death for weeks.  During bike rides, on sunny days, making dinner, weeding the garden, taking a bath.  James Gandolfini died she heard, from a sick heart I told her.  What about the man with the sick heart she asks. And asks again.  Why did he have a sick heart?  Why did he die?

She does not want to eat the fish grilling on the BBQ when she learns it has died, and must die to be eaten.  We did not want to tell her this, but she asks.  We are not all prepared for the question, even if we didn't not want to lie.  The fish doesn't want to die.  Neither do trees she says, and I'll never cut down a tree.  Weeds don't want to die either.  Again, why did the man with the sick heart die, mom?  I keep thinking about him.  And what about you, mama?  Are you going to die?  What about me?  Will I live a long time?  Will I live a long long long long long long long long long long long time, mom?

We all die, I tell her.  We try not to, but we all die.  It’s okay though because we're made of stardust and when we die we go back to being stardust.  Our atoms and molecules become flowers and butterflies.

Why?

Because we’ll get old, and our bodies can’t keep working.  Or we get hurt badly, and our bodies can’t recover.

Why?  What about this fish?  Did we kill him?  Why?  Why, mama, why?  Why?  Why?  Why?



I am harrowed, hearing these words in her sweet small voice.  Die, die, dead, kill, die.  She makes me feel witless and ineloquent.

Like any mom out of her depth I use the opportunity to push my own agenda.  I talk about vegetables, water, sleep and exercise.  I talk about looking both ways before crossing the street.  I talk about compassion and the dangers of greed.  Finally, I say no matter what happens, I'll always love you.  Forever.  And ever and ever and ever.  Even when I'm stardust.

What if you die before me, mom?  Then I'm damn lucky I want to tell her.  But I say I'LL STILL LOVE YOU.  I'll never not love you.  Stardust to stardust.  I'll be the flowers in your yard, and I'll love you.  I promise.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Integrity























As it darkens I see more of myself, except where the street lights flash.  Outside this window is the perfect urban street corner; leaves rustle, people smoke in congenial groups, traffic pulses like blood through the intersection.





















Last year I said I would not come back to this coffee shop when the barista stared at me dumbly for ordering a grande coffee.  Can you see, her blank face says, I do not understand what you say.  Is this Starbucks I don’t think so because I don’t even know what Starbucks means.  I don’t even know what it means.  

Ironically, I refuse to use Starbucks naming convention on the occasion I go into one of their coffee shops as well:  
A 16oz I say.  
Grande?  
Huh? I say, just a 16oz coffee.  
Grande?  
Is that 16 ounces?  I don’t know, because I just want coffee!  16 ounces of it!  


I forgot about my promise until I was already sitting at the window.  All I want is to find safe haven where I can be left alone to do work.  There's always a reason though, isn't there.  I still broke a promise. 






















Through the window, this perfect urban street corner and I have reached a compromised opacity. My work is done, and I’m just lingering because my work is never done.  



Wednesday, November 07, 2012

I'm trying repeatedly to log onto a website -- I've got a deadline and the entire scope of my skillset in this emergency is to hit the login button over and over.  I think it's working.  I'm getting more logged in every time.


Wednesday, October 31, 2012

October?

I'm surrounded by Kit-Kat wrappers because, whoa, it's Halloween which means it's no longer the summer I tried so hard to not take for granted, but is gone nevertheless.  I've eaten enough chocolate to almost refill the abyss where my soul once resided.  The nights are not long enough.  The coffeepot is not deep enough.  My breath is not broad enough.  The drinks aren't strong enough.  The rain isn't hard enough.  I've not yet been carried away.

If I had the time, I would get lost thinking about the past.




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