Push Me In

At the end of the day, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Information comes in my head and it sits there, moves around and congeals with a collection of other information. Experiences are like a stir in thick batter rearranging everything and making it closer and closer to that final finished thing ready to be baked. And somehow I feel like Grettel, looking into the oven and waiting for the witch to push me in.

If You Are Squeamish...

If you are squeamish, don’t prod the beach rubble. –Sappho

The City That Reads

Precious. Delightful. So nice this lovely public anonymity. This virtually exposing privacy. A place to broadcast to everyone and no one at all those little private nothings. Shhhhh… it’s a big secret.

Cassie leaves for Spain in a few days. Heading east for an adventure. She’ll suffer through the ticket line at the International counter, anxious and excited yet decidedly calm and wander slowly through the terminal to the gate. (She’ll be early, unlike me, who would be late and scurrying.) She’ll have a book for the airplane under her arm and she won’t be checking her luggage for her journey of three fortnights. Traveling light with her feet on the ground. She’ll wrestle with demons on the road of St. James under the milky way. Or perhaps she won’t. Perhaps she’ll just sit with her Gods and idols. More likely.

I, on the other hand, will head to Baltimore in the morning. The City that Reads. Baltimore - how desperate and tiresome. I’m certain the people of that fair city wouldn’t provide me warmest welcome with such a disparaging perch. But it comes down to a taxi, an airplane, a hotel and a little conglomeration of shops nestled against a harbor where tourists flock. Once, amidst dining on the pier after a day of disillusionment I discovered the waiter was a former acquaintance from San Francisco who had stolen my vacuum cleaner. How precious. You moved to Baltimore. The City that Reads.

The redeeming feature of the harbor is the aquarium. Among the finest I’ve had the pleasure to stroll. Towers of fish. But I wouldn’t take pleasure in swimming in circles day after day although I’d be lying if I said I that I didn’t do just that from time to time. I’m looking to spy my way out of those uninspired routines.

He Looks Defeated

The night was long, agitated and restless. “Lover, lover, please stop grinding your teeth.” It starts with kisses and are-you-okays, what’s-wrongs and sweet little wake-ups. But as the night progresses he’s far less kindhearted and by morning he looks at me sideways and angry. My jaw hurts and he feels a little vindicated – somehow retribution for his sleepless night.

This is the price of sugar. After that first bite of the hot fudge sundae, piled high with whipped cream, I feel the vessels tighten at the base of my neck and my toes begin to curl. I’ll be angst ridden all night and wake up tired for the noise I’ve made but slept through clearly more peaceably than him. He growls even when he comes home from work, hours have gone by for him to place this neatly in the past, but he remembers and again those sideways venomous glances.

I explain how it’s not something I can control, that it’s not purposeful. He vows never to go out for ice cream again. “You just refuse to feel guilty for anything.” “Yes, you’re right. I do. I don’t like it and I’m not going to feel it.” He looks defeated.

We go out and speak whimsically about this and that over dinner. By the time the bill arrives all is set right with the world. He no longer craves that I feel the sorrowful guilt of any misfortunate oaf stuck somewhere in limbo or the upper rings of hell. And being as I haven’t or didn’t or don’t, we’re at least on equal ground where neither or us thinks that I should.

He Looks Defeated

The night was long, agitated and restless. “Lover, lover, please stop grinding your teeth.” It starts with kisses and are-you-okays, what’s-wrongs and sweet little wake-ups. But as the night progresses he’s far less kindhearted and by morning he looks at me sideways and angry. My jaw hurts and he feels a little vindicated – somehow retribution for his sleepless night.

This is the price of sugar. After that first bite of the hot fudge sundae, piled high with whipped cream, I feel the vessels tighten at the base of my neck and my toes begin to curl. I’ll be angst ridden all night and wake up tired for the noise I’ve made but slept through clearly more peaceably than him. He growls even when he comes home from work, hours have gone by for him to place this neatly in the past, but he remembers and again those sideways venomous glances.

I explain how it’s not something I can control, that it’s not purposeful. He vows never to go out for ice cream again. “You just refuse to feel guilty for anything.” “Yes, you’re right. I do. I don’t like it and I’m not going to feel it.” He looks defeated.

We go out and speak whimsically about this and that over dinner. By the time the bill arrives all is set right with the world. He no longer craves that I feel the sorrowful guilt of any misfortunate oaf stuck somewhere in limbo or the upper rings of hell. And being as I haven’t or didn’t or don’t, we’re at least on equal ground where neither or us thinks that I should.

Different Directions

Oh darling, yes I can rage. It wasn’t my finest hour, but I certainly can get in touch with my inner bitch when the moment is ripe. She sits there so patiently waiting for her turn.

I shake it off a little – the loom of days, the bigger picture, the universe of possibilities. Worry about my own little garden. Cultivate the richness of my own life and don’t fret over the wasted strands of DNA and spilled water on the world.

I had lunch with Max today at the Sheraton Palace. Cau ca vin and crème brulee. Chatter about family and days gone by and days to come. A smooth little discourse without a single pregnant pause or conversations hiccup that all to often accompanies the unfamiliar. A big embrace and a parting of ways to our separate trains that never keeps us so far apart even when they’re speeding off in different directions.