I was raised by an unscrupulous society of Hindus, was plunked almost unassisted into American culture at the age of 6, have been trying to figure it out since then. Doesn't everybody believe they are so complex as to be incomprehensible? Am I not? I stick my fingers into my own wounds and feel peerless, indulgent. Fucking Hare Krishnas.
But I don't feel this way right now. I feel exceedingly simple and easy to please.
Wiping the counters brings me great joy. My tiny cabin and tacky orange kitchen thrill me.
The lot we live on is big but it used to be huge. The landlord sold half of it off a few years ago and the people who bought it wheeled in a mobile home, went inside, closed the blinds and haven't come out since. Well, not unless they have to. The yard gets mowed but the weeds around the foundation are four feet high. I swear they wouldn't have windows if it wasn't code. They have a pool table in the living room and a small concrete patio they plunk their toddler on once and awhile so she can waive her arms around in the sun.
I like stories so I have filled in the details for myself. They met in a bar. He was a bar guy, she was half her weight, got knocked up, kept him home. Its a half-hearted, horizon-eyeing, keeping the backdoor unlocked kind of domesticity and one day he is gonna take off. I imagine thats how those things happen.
It is weird to be this same age that my parents were when they were making their impassioned decisions that so fundamentally defined my life, and to see those decisions being made from the point of view of uncertain yet well-intentioned adults. Maybe I give people too much credit. Bored, lazy, unstable... I don't know. If I had had any concept of frailty when I was a kid it wouldn't seem so astonishing to me now.
Not everyone is so charitable. I am not saying that I am. Its just that I like stories.
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