Bright yellow backhoe works hard all day long
and shuts down, exhausted, at night.
Lamppost leans over her, protective and calm,
he worries, but can’t do too much.
There are weeds in the lot, but the sunsets are nice,
in the heat of the hot summer night.
And bright yellow backhoe, and lamppost, and me,
love each other, and never quite touch.
I think she woke to wonder every morning,
even when she was already a ghost.
Sat at her typewriter and leaped gracefully over the aching hollowness
lingered delicately
(as fruits chilled all day on ice, served up with kirsch)
on the sweet moments,
the world quietly disappearing around her.
Fascists wander through the pages,
all smiles. Communists and beautiful Jewish girls
trying to forget and remember the starving pain
of imprisoned loved ones, being served strange meals
on old ships
by old stewards.
Champagne and caviar and the slow, voluptuous
always voluptuous, ever so voluptuous
pleasure of discovering that despite what men tell you,
you, as a woman, have the right to ask for
and receive
just what you want.
Love, she reminds us,
without ever telling us,
is complicated. People move about.
We hurt one another.
We break the rules.
We feed our strange hungers and our healthy ones,
and the alcohol in our blood and the strong or subtle flavors
are meant to be enjoyed,
and we are meant to enjoy each other,
and we are meant to enjoy ourselves.
I think that my gratitude would matter to her,
if she could ever have known
the things she taught me.
(For M.F.K. Fisher)
When they asked her later, Madeline couldn’t really explain what was wrong.
Maybe it was the smell of wet pollen in the air,
or the cracked streetlight globe.
Maybe it was the blue glow of the television the night before,
or the words her mother had spoken to her on the phone,
worried and inspirational.
A walk around the neighborhood seemed like a perfectly rational idea.
Nobody was looking.
(She found out later she was wrong about that).
It was wet and the tree wanted to be climbed,
And the leaves that she plucked, numb-fingered –
they wanted to fall.
And fall.
And fall.
About a year or so ago, I met a friend of a friend who runs a pretty successful internet start-up. We chatted a bit online for a few weeks, during the course of which, he googled me. He found some of my KinkForAll videos.
He proceeded to give me stern warnings. Much like the one mentioned here, only with a stronger overtone of “I am a Successful Person and know about these things.”
I didn’t do a very good job of saying I don’t care. And I still don’t do the best of jobs explaining why, for instance, this blog is still linked to my professional page.
You all like XKCD, right? You all think Randall Munroe is a pretty smart guy, and it’s worth paying attention to the stuff in his comics?
Yeah. So do I.
PS thanks to Sara Eileen for re-pointing me to this comic.
It was easy to tell myself
that I didn’t like roses.
It was easy to look at their long leggy stems
and their few graceful leaves and their manicured petals,
inhale their anemic, gentrified scent,
and dislike them.
But we all know that isn’t the truth.
The truth is as simple as nature intended:
I like a rose with hips.
I like a rose with briar-patch thorns and raggedy petals
and bright yellow stamens alluring the bees.
I like a rose with branches and thickets
that push at the fence.
But most of all, as the summer starts waning
I like a rose with bright red and shining,
sassy and swollen, tangy, replete –
I like a rose with hips.
There is nothing like the privacy
afforded by a tall-tree perimeter
around the edge of a large pond.
It is not as private as your bathroom,
with the door locked and the shades drawn
and the shower on as hot as it will go
pouring solace onto you.
It is not as private as your car,
where you can sing as loud as you want
and say the mean things you think of other drivers
and ignore what you know:
That they have lives and circumstances too
and might be in a hurry for good reason.
But don’t try to tell me that
or remind me that just beyond the edge of my miopia
those lighter patches around the curve of this tiny peninsula
are other humans having their own day out.
Honestly. I’m not listening to you.
I am listening to the lapping of wavelets brought up by the wind
and the sound of my skin forming goosebumps.
I am listening to her laughter
and the sunshine
and the pollywogs and dragonflies and snakes.
I am listening to being naked in the water and the sunshine
In the perfect privacy
Of trees and sky and pond.
Sometimes in Spring
When the clouds are sitting low and broody
And you forget your warmer jacket
And sit shivering
You look up and in the middle-distance
There are little white flakes, fluttering
And your heart jumps
And you think
“Oh no. Please no.
I thought we were done with this.”
And you let your eyes wander
For some sort of comfort to hold you
against the looming specter of cold,
And you see the rest of the blossoms
Still on the tree.
Relax.
Winter is not following you.
It will be warm again in time for the weekend.