Saturday, April 19, 2014

April, Now

This morning, my father fed my son his bottle as the sun set its fingers to the lip of the world and the trees, large and small, stepped into their bodies and I flew from home to home. There are worse constellations of things.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

I Am Here

Bloomington, IN.  My heart; my heart.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

I Am Here

Greater Charlottesville, VA.  Missing my kid.

Monday, March 24, 2014

I Was Here

Indian Rocks Beach, FL.  Also not taking pictures.  Possibly because I was there for all of SIXTEEN HOURS.  Taking a very, very short trip is like being abruptly parboiled: In you go, and then out again, pale and damp and mildly transformed.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

I Was Here

Raleigh, NC.  Not taking pictures.  Because I am terrible at taking pictures!  A lack-of-predilection about which I periodically have existential crises.  Is my failure to snap the world a failure to acknowledge my presence in it?

Thursday, March 6, 2014


Why don't people talk more about malaise?  Is that distinctive cocktail of self-loathing, entropy, and foreboding really so foreign that we have to import the word for it all the way from France?  It's true that the literal translation of "malaise," "bad ease," goes some of the way toward describing its effects, but it leaves a good chunk of the experience untonuged.

Malaise. I haz u.

And I'm not sure why.  Of course, that's the essence of malaise: your inability to articulate any good reason for your presence within it.  It's a straight up first world emotion, the kind you succumb to when you own gadgets for frothing milk.

A thousand pinpricks, none of which bleeds.  Your newspaper is late.  There's a hole in your sock.  We're all dying in our own sweet time, and you're just not sure, midafternoon on a Thursday, what it is you should be doing.

The cure: Misfortune.  A hard fall.  Or tea.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Supposed to Be Mine

We went out for Valentine's Day last night, the first Valentine's Day in as long as I can remember upon which I've done anything conventionally romantic.

It wasn't my idea. 

I suffer from congenital perversity, a kind of virulent allergy to supposed-tos.  I like to run against the grain. This dates from babyhood, and made me a particularly endearing toddler.  )The number of preschools I was kicked out of is larger than the number of children my parents had, which does not strike me as an accident.)

But my husband surprised me on this one, engaging a babysitter and making a dinner reservation before I had even clocked the holiday on the horizon.  And who am I to interfere when a man wants to take me out for dinner?  And so we went.  The restaurant was full of couples in red.  There was an overpriced prix fixe menu, attentive servers, and much flashing of wedding rings.  I downed two cocktails and everything was delicious.

Swimming with the horde, doing what comes easy, taking the road more traveled by: It isn't always so bad.  It's only well past preschool that I've begun to recognize perversity for the taskmistress she is, to acknowledge that fear of allowing others to shape your choices allows -not to put too fine a point on it- others to shape your choices.

I wore red, too.  And a diamond ring.